#hero: I miss you but also you probably shouldn’t be here | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

rosewaterandivy · 1 year

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Part 4. all fired up

Summary: Rumor has it, that hometown hero-turned-teacher Steve Harrington is hot for teacher. The English teacher next door to him at Hawkins High, who also happens to be his childhood friend, that is.

Pairing: Steve Harrington x chaotic!dumbass reader

Warnings: No use of y/n - reader goes by Trouble instead, depictions of drinking & drinking games, cursing, Eddie being shockingly graceful, and laundry room confessions

A/N: Modern!Teacher AU, English teacher reader, History teacher Steve, slow burn, friends to lovers, romance. Here’s 3.8K of multi-perspective tension, sexual and otherwise, and timeline fuckery; feedback and reblogs are appreciated, enjoy!

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Now - Spring break, March

Steve asking you to move into the loft was the last thing you’d expected. Not that the house hunt had been going so hot, to be fair. And you found yourself back on the couch of 4B more often than not.

He’d broached the topic with you a few weeks ago before school started. Seated at your desk and hastily applying your makeup using the mirror from a compact. Steve hung out with you most mornings before first period, shooting the shit and gossiping about students. Eddie and Robin would join you when they could, but usually it was just the two of you.

“Are we aligned for quarter 3?” You ask, attempting to curl your eyelashes without pinching yourself. “I’m doing Night just as you roll into WWII with AP World, yeah?”

Steve nods, “Right, we have the field trip to the Holocaust Memorial Museum before spring break, so that tracks.”

“Good,” you swipe mascara through your lashes. “We should send out the permission slips this week then. I’ll send out an email to parents if they wanna volunteer as chaperones.”

He goes quiet, as if he’s lost in thought while you begin the same meticulous process with your other eye.

“Y’know Nance is moving out soon,” he says casually, his loafer toeing the tile on the floor. “Her and Jonathan finally found a place; she’s thinking she’ll be out in time for spring break.”

“Ugh, finally,” you comment, setting the lash curler down. “Thought the day would never come.”

He laughs at your flippant response, watching as you continue your routine. And just as you were going to consider your makeup application for the day ‘mission accomplished,’ Steve says, “The room’s yours, if you want it.”

Shocked, you nearly stab yourself in the eye with the mascara wand, tears beading at your lash line, “Fuck!”

Dropping the wand and compact, you screw your eye shut in pain thus ruining your mascara. May as well accept you’d walk around looking like a raccoon again. It’d be funny if it wasn’t so ridiculous.

“Are you okay?”

“Considering that I nearly put my own eye out? Yeah, I’m just peachy.”

He cringes watching as you blink, “Sorry, that was probably my bad.”

“How,” you laugh, pain dissipating slightly, “I don’t recall asking you to do my makeup today.”

“No,” he huffs, “I mean with the whole asking you to move in thing. Shouldn’t have sprung it on you like that.”

Surveying the damage in the mirror, you admit defeat and grab for the makeup removing towelettes. “Mmhm, really missed an opportunity to wine and dine me there, big guy.”

The joke lands like a lead balloon. Ba dum tss!

You scrub the towelette across your face, paying special attention to your overly mascara’d eye, and pop open your moisturizer. “It’s not a big deal Steve, and you’re not wrong to bring it up.”

“Yeah, how you figure?”

Your shrug dotting on your moisturizer, “Solves two problems, doesn’t it? You need a roommate and I need a place to live.”

He stays quiet as you finish your ablutions, omitting the fact that they don’t necessarily need another roommate to make rent since his trust fund kicked in. But then again, Eddie and Robin don’t know that either.

“I guess,” he says, checking his watch. “Well, no pressure, either way. But I gotta bounce, I have hall duty.”

“Sure,” your voice is a clip as you zip the makeup bag shut, “See ya later.”

He gives you a small smile and wave as he leaves. The door closes behind him; the silence left in his absence deafening.

“It’s too soon, Nance,” Robin says, voice a crackle in the slow, calm of the morning.

Nancy considers her words, taking a sip of coffee from her travel mug. And true, Robin knows Steve well and is understandably protective over him. But Nancy knows you and Steve, and that you’re both chickenshit.

“Maybe so,” she breathes, eyes glancing out the window and settling on Steve helping you to unload a few boxes from your car. A half-hearted shrug, “But then again, maybe not.”

She had made quick work of moving out, room packed in an orderly fashion and boxes labeled appropriately. The moving company arrived promptly and Nancy had successfully moved out of the loft before you had arrived that morning.

Jonathan and Argyle would meet the movers at the house, and she’d head out then. For now, she observed the debacle unfolding on the street outside of the loft. You had packed your car in typical fashion, which was …chaotic, to say the least. When you and Steve couldn’t free a box wedged against the window of the backseat, you hollered from the street for Eddie until he woke up.

Understandably pissed, he trudged out of the loft in his sweatpants and a crop top that had to have been Robin’s at one point (a goldenrod yellow shirt with red text reading ‘Lasagna Del Rey’), muttering something about you being a dumbass. And now, Steve and Eddie eyed the boxes warily, debating how best to wrest them from the backseat and trunk.

“Sup, bitches?” You greet, having successfully snuck away from the boys downstairs, and drop your purse and a box by the door. “Ooh, are the girls fighting yet?”

Joining them at the window, you spy Steve yelling something at Eddie, who has taken it upon himself to open the sunroof of your car, thinking that the best way to unload the ridiculous amount of boxes in the backseat. He’s laid himself partially out on the roof and trunk, shoving an arm in through the opening, like a human claw machine.

“For fuck’s sake,” Nancy says with a shake of her head, “They don’t have a brain cell to rub together between to two of them.”

Robin snorts, phone out and already recording for posterity’s sake. “You can say that again.”

The boys, only somewhat successful in unpacking the car, badger the group of you in the loft until you’re annoyed enough to come downstairs and help. By the time the movers had arrived and placed the furniture in your new bedroom, your car had been unpacked, boxes organized by Nancy in the kitchen for the time being.

“The end of an era,” you say, hugging her goodbye. “Can’t believe the great Nancy Wheeler is shipping out to war.”

Robin and Eddie laugh from the living room, where they’re currently preoccupied laying out beers some semblance of a shape, a bottle of whiskey at the center of the coffee table.

She hits your shoulder playfully, “It won’t be that bad,” she tells you, “S’not like I’m dying over here.”

“Sorry, what was that?” You turn to Steve, stubbornly ignoring her presence, “I swear, it’s like she’s in the room with us.”

“Spooky,” Robin agrees, with a waggle of her brows, “I can’t remember the last time I saw Nancy Wheeler.”

She scoffs behind you, “Okay punks, I can take a hint,” and places her key on the counter.

Steve pulls her into a bearhug and says, “Oh, y’think you’re getting out of here without a rematch?”

Nancy pushes back, eyeing him warily. “You wanna go toe to toe with the reigning champ?”

“Hey, hey, hey,” you cut in, strolling casually to the living room and catching the beer Eddie tosses your way. “We’re all adults here.” Your voice is eerily calm and reserved, “We can do this with dignity, self-restraint, and, dare I say, honor.”

Robin grins, “The name of the game is True American,” tosses two beers Steve’s way.

Eddie counts it down, “One, two, three, four. JFK!”

“FDR!” is chorused in return.

Beers are cracked open and shotgunned with abandon.

“Steve, you’re in the lava!” you shout from your perch on the dining table, “Get outta there man.”

He stops drinking his beer and looks at you, puzzled, “I thought this was Nancy Reagan’s gun closet.”

“George Washington, Abe Lincoln,” Eddie croons, as you reach out to haul Steve on the table with you.

“Cherry tree!”

Robin whistles, swaying precariously on the windowsill, “All right Americans, ya ready? Let’s do the count.”

“One, two, three.”

You slap the back of your hand to your forehead, one finger raised and inspect everyone else’s numbers; Nance and Robin both had threes, while Eddie came at a close second with a two, Steve was dead last with a four.

Squinting, you smile and call out, “That’s me!” Moving unilaterally from the tabletop and stepping across a chair and stool to take your new position.

Steadying yourself on the countertop, you signal for their attention. “The only thing we have to fear–”

“Is fear itself!” they call back in response, “Drink!”

An hour or so later finds you several beers in and slung across Eddie’s back in a piggyback ride as he steps precariously across blankets and pillows.

“Jimmy Carter atop Grover Cleveland,” you say softly as he takes his turn, well both your turns since it’s turned into a team game now.

He stops and looks from left to right, “What now?”

Untangling an arm from where you’d wrapped it around his shoulders, you point to the right. “Over here.”

“Huh,” he grunts swaying slightly, “M’over here,” and moves another space to the right.

“I gotta get to the castle!” Nancy yells, hopping toward the coffee table with the help of an overturned barstool.

“Go, Nance, go!” you cheer her on, safely deposited on an armchair near the couch.

“JFK!”

“FDR,” you chant, taking another swig of beer, watching as Steve and Robin intertwine arms to pour beer into the other’s mouth. Most of Seve’s spilling out and onto his shirt as Robin laughs.

“Y’know,” Steve sighs, running a hand through his hair, “You’re pretty good at this Nance.”

She smiles, toasts him with her beer can, and takes a bow.

He thumbs his lip, eyes glinting dangerously.

“But not good enough.”

Slowly, you meandered from the armchair to the coffee table while Steve was distracted and grab the handle of whisky; check mate. You wave to Eddie from where he’s stood next to Steve.

“D-does this–” he blinks at you, dazed.

Steve turns quickly from Eddie to you and back again. “What–No!”

“Is it–” Eddie continues, treading carefully across the floor to the coffee table. “This means we win?!”

“Yes,” you crow loudly, “This means we won! Suck it Steve–who’s the King now!?”

Eddie picks you up and swings you around in victory chanting, “U.S.A., U.S.A.!” Your bright laughter rings out amidst Steve’s groans of defeat.

The next morning finds you all piled on your bed, groaning as the spring sun lances through the windows. Your brain is mush, leaking from your ears it feels like. You turn to get out of bed, cursing the sloshing of your stomach. Still reeling from your celebration after winning True American, you flop on the floor with an audible thunk and belly crawl toward the door.

“You okay?” a low rasp, followed by the rustling of sheets.

You grunt as someone scoops you from the floor, dragging you upwards. Body limp as a ragdoll’s you allow yourself to be carried out of the room, hazarding a glance behind to see Robin, Nancy, and Eddie still passed out on the bed.

Mmm, must be Steve then.

He was always quick to rally after nights spent barhopping in college, kept his liquor better than you ever could. Hands scrabbling for something to hold on to, you settle for the threadbare fabric of his shirt. He shifts you in his grasp, readjusting the grip he has on you and sighs.

“You’re…freakishly…quiet,” he whispers as he deposits you on the couch, leaning forward to get a better look at you, hair falling in his face.

Batting your hand at him blearily, you burrow down into the couch hugging a pillow for good measure. Steve leaves you, starting the coffeemaker in the kitchen and mumbling about the moving boxes cluttering the counters.

“Everything is shit.” You whine, “Fucking True American… Fucking whiskey. My bones hurt. I feel like I’m dying. My sweat is sweating. Did I even fall asleep in my own bedroom?”

Steve snorts because at least he wasn’t that sloppy. He doesn’t remember a lot from last night, but something like clarity returns to him, a chorus of cheers and something being tossed. “Was that before or after you took off your panties?”

You whimper and bury your forehead into the pillow beneath you, cheeks coloring in embarrassment. “You remember that? S’last time I rock a lace thong, felt like my ass was eating it.”

He shuts his eyes at the image, tries not comment on anything involving your ass. Instead he asks, “So how do we want the coffee this morning? Regular strength or trying to vibrate yourself out of existence?”

“Jus’ wanna feel normal again. Remember? Bones hurt.”

Steve hums in the affirmative, pouring the coffee into two mugs and adding a splash of creamer to one. He pads over to you, sets both mugs on the table and lets you choose. Opting for the black coffee, you take a bitter sip hoping to feel something other than remorse.

“Mmm, s’gonna be that kinda day I see.”

“All due respect, which is none,” you grouse, “You can fuck all the way off, Steve.”

He sputters the next mouthful at your response, and it catches in his nose, makes him choke and cough all over the coffee table. You suddenly follow suit, except it’s on your own spit and the two of you look like complete morons to Eddie, who is sauntering in, completely fine.

“Told you to lay off the whiskey last night, Trouble,” he says reproachingly. He pauses by the hallway entrance before walking out into the living room, stepping on the back of the armchair with the grace of a prima ballerina. You and Steve gape at how he balances on the back of it, reaching up toward the ceiling.

With a thump he lands back down, arm pulling back before a tiny purple thong quietly smacks Steve in the face.

“What the fuck!?” You shove Steve off of the couch in a poor effort to retrieve your unmentionables. He grunts and shakes it loose, one hand pushing your face back as the other grips your thong. He opens his mouth to cuss out Eddie but the look on his face shuts you both up.

Eddie looks like a dog with a bone. The cat who caught the canary. Smug and casual as he leans against the counter, arms crossed as he looks from your pink face to Steve’s, to the triangle of fabric in your hand. Eddie waggles his brows, sucks on his teeth, and grins– shit-eatingly proud.

“Thought you’d want those back, Stevie. You’re the one who took ’em off her last night.”

The rest of the day slips by lazily. Jonathan collecting Nancy around noon or so, offended at having missed a rousing game of True American. They say their goodbyes and head off to the new house, leaving the rest of you to clean up from last night and unpack the boxes in the kitchen.

Steve is trying to do laundry. He prefers to do it himself, though Robin always offers to throw it in with her stuff. That’s fine though, he’s got a system, one he’s perfected over years of uninterrupted Sundays doing laundry.

Anyway, he’s trying to do laundry when you saunter in.

On top of an empty dryer, you swing your legs uselessly. “Harrington,” you instruct seriously, “Don’t put the red sock in with the white stuff.”

“Yeah, no shit,” he retorts sifting through his hamper. Separating out the darks from the lights, whites elsewhere—it’s a system.

You tilt your head, amused, and stare at him. It’s midafternoon now, the boxes had been unpacked and your own items absorbed into the communal drawers and spaces of the loft. Robin and Eddie busied themselves with their usual activities, whatever those were, and the loft had been quiet save for the a/c kicking on.

“D’ya wanna talk about it?”

Your hesitant to ask, voice soft as you bite your lip. He stops sorting the clothes to look at you, brow furrowed.

“Talk about what?”

It’s only then that he notices you’re wearing his shirt. He shouldn’t be surprised, not really, you’re like a raccoon, always rifling through his shit and stealing his stuff. As if he wouldn’t notice.

An old white t-shirt from some vintage store or another that read ‘Stanley Cup.’ It swallows you, the white dips and stretches over your chest, and drops as its hem reaches the tops of your thighs. Your bare legs stick out, bottoms obscured by its larger size. You’re distracted by the material and fit, fingers tugging at the collar and adjusting the sleeves.

Something feels weird. Kind of funny like how a jab to the side hurts and tickles at the same time. Shock? Relief? Confusion, at the very least. He catches himself staring.

“Y’know,” you say after a while, hand stroking at your sternum languidly, “Christmas? We should get it out in the open.”

That snaps him out of it.

“Don’t you mean Thanksgiving?”

He goes back to sorting the clothes, anything to distract himself in the moment.

“What do you mean? Thanksgiving?”

If he had to pinpoint it, the moment this whole thing was set off for him, it was that first night in the cabin over Thanksgiving break. He couldn’t keep his eyes off of you, could barely keep his hands to himself.

He sighs, brushing away the hair that had fallen into his eyes frustratedly, “Yeah. When the idiots conned us into a one-bed-short situation? You got drunk, and I had to take care of you?”

He just stops himself from saying, like always. Just barley, but he does it. Steve knows this has been difficult for you, doesn’t want to belabor the point.

“Oh,” you say. It’s soft, maybe a little dejected, too. Your legs stop their idle swinging. “Sorry, I didn’t know—”

“S’fine,” he says with a wave of his hand, tosses in a load of dark clothes to the washer. “I mean, we probably should discuss it. Just for like, ground rules or something.”

He eyeballs the amount of laundry detergent and shuts the machine, turning the dial and pressing ‘start.’ As the washer begins its cycle, he leans back against it, arms crossed.

You take a deep breath in, “I didn’t want you to be that guy,” you admit, voice catching. “I couldn’t— I wouldn’t do that to you, Steve.”

“Then why did you–” he responds after a second, pausing to make eye contact, watches your wavering expression, wincing as you recall the events of last December.

“Jesus, Stevie,” you say gently, “You’re--my best friend.”

The door of the loft bursts open as he begins to reply. He takes you aside in the hallway, further from the laundry and closer to your bedroom. Hears Robin shout something about take-out orders, but dismisses it for the time being.

This isn’t for anyone except you and him. You can’t even articulate it to yourself, much less anyone else, so Steve nudges you into your room and shuts the door. You turn to him and the look in your eyes makes his breath stick to his throat. Jesus.

This is worse than sympathy and he wishes it were that simple. But this is heartbreak— and you’re the type of person who feels heartbreak in unimaginable ways. Steve shakes his head, doesn’t know how to navigate this part.

The first time this happened, he joked for your sake, and you laughed back for his. You both were younger then, inexperienced and wary; fumbling hands and lips after the Homecoming dance. The last time this happened, the glances were more pointed, the touches were measured and precise.

He’s thought about that night more than he’d care to admit.

Your mouth falls open in a hoarse whisper, “Sorry— I’m—”

“Hey, none of that,” he chides taking a step closer. “S’nothing to worry about.”

“But I—” you choke up, “I hurt you, Steve. I hurt you so much.”

He sucks a breath in. It was a lifetime ago. It was nothing. He was young and dumb and interested in Nancy, your best friend, and not the girl next door. And then, when he had realized his mistake, you were in love with somebody else— wearing his ring and planning to take his name.

Idiot.

He wishes he had a similar excuse for Christmas, but god knows he doesn’t. No excuse whatsoever, just raw feeling and need. He shakes the thought loose before it can take hold. Steve’s hands find purchase along your arms, his weight the only thing tethering you to the ground.

“But I’m okay. I’m good now. I got you with me. I’m okay.” All his rambling rushes out through a harried stream-of-consciousness. His thumbs running smooth circles against your skin, “You— You gotta stop cryin’. It’s killin’ me, honey.”

You blink your eyes, not recognizing the tears beading along your lashes. You press your palms into your eyes, take a deep breath in and out. “Okay.”

You keep to yourself for the rest of the day, only coming out for food when the take-out arrives. And even then, you eat quickly and make some excuse about needing to organize your room before leaving the table.

Robin eyes Steve suspiciously, “You two alright?”

He leaves the table rather than respond and follows you down the hall. Your door is cracked open, laptop playing some sitcom or other on the desk as you fold clothes on your bed. You pause hearing the groan of an old floorboard, “That you Steve?”

“Yeah, s’just me.”

Not turning from your task, you wave him in over your shoulder and continue pairing socks. He helps you return the clothes to their respective drawers and flops on your bed, exhausted, while you shut your laptop closed.

“Guess you’re staying then.”

“Guess so,” his voice is muffled by your impossibly comfortable duvet. Like clouds or some shit, Steve wonders passingly where you got it from.

Half-heartedly, you shove him to the side and turn down the sheets. You pat the side next to you and fluff up some pillows. He lays down next to you on the bed, propped up against a pillow or two, settling down for the night.

Steve watches as you burrow down in the sheets, mumble something incomprehensibly, body sliding briefly until you’re completely pressed against him. He tugs the blanket up and shifts so he can lie down comfortably, grabs your phone from the center of the bed.

He’s looking at your background wallpaper when you mumble something unintelligible in your sleep again. It’s a picture of him from a Zoom faculty meeting during the pandemic, brows raised at something some dumbass had said, you’d texted him a moment earlier saying ‘this idiot saying the quiet part out loud’ and he had to cover his laugh with a cough; you’d isolated his cell on the call and posed next to his face as it filled the screen of your monitor, a cheeky grin and thumbs up as Eddie snapped the photo.

A short sigh followed by a deeper one. “Yeah, you know.”

“Uh huh,” Steve smirks, entertaining your babbling. “Is that right?”

“Yeah.” A grunt, a huff of breath before you flip on your side, dreaming now. “Yeah. I love you.”

Steve fumbles and drops the phone on the floor, its screen going dark. He stares wordlessly at the deep blue of your ceiling, sleep-drunk words sinking to the bottom of his swollen heart.

#steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #fanfiction #teacher!steve #stranger things #reader insert #the kids aren't alright - rosewaterandivy

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introspectivememories · 1 year

Text

They’ve surrounded the Joker when it happens.

“Give up Joker.” Bruce growls out, “You’re outnumbered.”

“Oh, Batsy!” The Joker says with a face-splitting grin, “All these heroes for little old me? You shouldn’t have!”

And yeah, Tim supposes having the entire family here was a bit overkill but with Joker one couldn’t take any chances. He does wish that this fight could be over though — there's a cold case with his name on it back at the cave.

“Got the family back together!” The Joker laughs, “How wonderful Batsy! But… where’s my Robin?”

The family collectively inhales. From the corner of his eye, Tim sees Dick take a step forward only to be held back by Cass.

“Oh? Did I hit a soft spot there? I miss my Robin. You should’ve heard the way he screamed. We had so much fun Batsy!”

God, Tim didn’t even know it was possible for Bruce to get tenser.

The Joker’s face screws up into something more contemplative, “Maybe I should take someone new? How about you, baby bat? Whad’ya think? Wanna have some fun with Uncle Joker?”

“I will decapitate you with my sword, Joker,” Damian sneers.

The Joker laughs, “That’s the spirit!”

He’s about to take a step forward when all of a sudden two loud gunshots sound out.

The Joker drops to the ground, both kneecaps shot through.

His family shares a collective glance — Jason? No way, he sticks to the Bowery and Crime Alley when the Joker’s out. So, then who?

“That’s no fair!” The Joker wails, “You told me you don’t use guns!”

“What’s going on?” Babs says into the comms.

“Were those gunshots I just heard?” Jason asks, “I’m coming over right now.”

Shit, Tim thinks, Jason coming over will do no good for anyone. We need to wrap this up.

A voice rings out over them, “Goddamnit Mori, I think my aim’s getting worse. Whad’ya think?”

“You said two shots and you made two shots. It’s not like that clip isn’t still practically full.” Another voice — presumably Mori — says, “If it gets the job done…”

“Then it gets the job done.” The first voice says back.

Two people walk into the clearing both wearing black masks. The one with blond hair is wearing an oversized white button-up with a tie, a black knee-length coat, wide-leg pants, and combat boots. The blond-haired one was shorter than the other but still taller than Tim. He was quite broad too.

You think he’s cute, don’t you? His mind teases

What? No! He just shot the Joker. He retorts.

Yeah, but look at those arms. He could probably pick us up with one hand.

And now that his brain had brought it up, he couldn’t get the idea out of his head.

Look, now is not the time. We’ll jerk off about it later.

So you will jerk off to him?

Tim blushes furiously under the mask, Oh my god, shut up!

Focusing back on the scene in front of him, he catalogs the other man. The other man is quite tall, like Jason-level tall. He’s wearing all black — a turtleneck with two gun holsters strapped across his chest, and black cargo(?)/combat(?) pants tucked into combat boots. He also has a sword strapped to his waist.

Oh, and they both have black gloves on. Huh, hot.

By the time, Tim is done cataloging both of them, they’ve arrived in front of them.

The Joker turns from the ground, where is trying to stem the blood coming out of his leg, “Are you two the ones that shot me? That wasn’t very nice of you! If you wanted to-”

The blond one tilts his head and in one quick motion, the black-haired one backhands the Joker.

“God, do you ever shut up?” The blond one says, “Always fuckin yammering.”

The black-haired one sighs, “The sword causes too much drag.”

(Now that he's heard Mori speak a little, he notices a bit of an accent. Not enough to be identifiable but enough to know that English probably wasn't his first language.)

“I fucking told ya, Mori!” The blond says, “Why’d’ya bring it anyway?”

“It adds to the mystique! The aura!”

“We literally did not need that.”

“Whatever. You wouldn’t know flair if it smacked you across the face.” Mori says, “Now help me strap it across my back.”

Tim watches flabbergasted as the two men squabble over the sword. Finally, the blond one gets it strapped on.

(“So many fucking straps and for what?”

“It’s fashion,” Mori hisses.

“It’s impractical, is what it is.”)

Dick seems to get tired of this act and steps forward, “Can we help you two?”

Tim watches as the blond’s eyes curve into smiles, “No, no, it’s okay! Just sit back and watch the show!”

“What do you want?” Bruce says, as curt as ever.

The two men look at each other and then back at Bruce before bursting into laughter.

“Why what any Gothamite wants of course. To kill the Joker!” The blond says.

The Joker laughs, “Oh now this is going to be fun!”

Bruce steps forward, “We can’t let you do that.”

“Don’t worry, you just have to watch,” Mori says.

Bruce takes another step forward and quick as a whip the blond has a gun trained on him. Bruce raises his hands.

“Don’t move,” he says, “Take a few steps back.”

Bruce walks backward a few steps till he’s back in line with them.

“Now here’s what’s gonna happen.” He says, “I am going to kill the Joker and you guys are going to watch. And then, we are going to leave. Okay?”

“There are other ways than killing someone. Do not do this.”

The men look at each other and shake their heads.

“Oh Batman,” Blond says like he’s talking to a particularly disobedient child, “How many people have to die before it’s too many? How many children? How many graveyards does this thing have to fill before it’s too many?”

Jason inhales sharply over the comms.

“How many children do you have to lose, Batman, to this thing before it becomes unacceptable? One in a wheelchair and the other died and was brought back.”

Babs’ voice comes over shaky through the comms, “How does he know that?”

“If you had any sense,” Blond continues, “You would’ve ended this twisted game of tag years ago. But you couldn’t. So now I have to clean up the mess for you.”

“Let’s get started then.” Mori nods and steps back, falling into parade rest.

“First things first,” Blond whips the gun over to Damian. The family startles. “Get him off the field. Now.”

“How dare y-” Damian starts.

“You are, like, 10. I am not going to beat the shit out of Joker in front of a 10-year-old. Go home, kid.”

“I will not.”

Blond shoots at the ground in front of Damian, “I won’t miss next time. I’m not playing around. Go home, kid.”

“Robin,” Bruce says.

Damian stands up straighter, “Yes Father?”

“Go home.”

“Father!”

“That is an order. Go now.”

Damian deflates, “Yes Father.” And he grapples away.

Blond watches Damian until they can’t see him anymore. Then he turns back to the Joker.

“Mori, crowbar.”

The family stiffens.

Mori hands Blond a crowbar. He runs his fingers up and down it in a mockery of a caress.

Blond looks down at the Joker, “No, don’t be scared.” He coos, “It’s just payback. You understand, right?”

He traces the hook part over the Joker’s cheek, “What goes around, comes around. You killed someone and now I have to kill you. It’s nothing personal.”

Blond stops, “Well, actually it is. I’m a Gothamite, it’s definitely personal.”

Blond raises the crowbar and brings it down, again and again, and again.

THWACK — a bone snaps.

THWACK — blood squelches.

THWACK — the crowbar rips through Joker’s face.

Over and over again, the sound rips through the square. Mori never takes his eyes off the gruesome scene.

Finally, Blond seems to get tired of whacking the Joker and drops the crowbar on the ground.

Looking down, Blond groans, “Man, he got blood all over my white shirt!”

I’m pretty sure you did that yourself, Tim thinks hysterically.

“God Mori,” Blond whines, “What should I do?”

“Finish it,” Mori says.

“You’re right.” Blond reaches into his overcoat and pulls out a gun. It’s clearly special, considering the reverence Blond holds it with.

Blond presses a kiss to the hilt and aims it at Joker’s forehead.

“Don’t do this,” Bruce says.

Blond turns his head towards Bruce and oh, his eyes are so sad, “It’s too late Batman. It’s going to happen anyway.”

Below him, Joker gurgles out smiling maniacally through his mangled face, “You won’t kill me.”

Blond takes a deep breath, “For my darling.” He whispers.

He breathes out and presses the trigger.

BANG.

The Joker lies dead on the ground, a smile still on his face.

Blond crouches down and taps his gun to the Joker’s chest, “I hope you suffer for the rest of eternity. May you never find peace.”

Then he stands up and stumbles over into Mori’s open arms.

“Mori,” he sobs out, “What, what have I-”

Mori smooths Blond’s hair back, “Shh. It’s okay. You did the right thing. He would’ve killed more people if you didn’t end him. It’s okay.”

“I never wanted to become this. What would she think of me? She’d be so disgusted.” Blond gasps out.

“I didn’t know the young mistress as well as you did but from what you’ve told me of her, I think she’d be proud of you,” Mori says, rubbing his hand up and down Blond’s back.

Lovers? He thinks, Or are they brothers?

(Why does his heart hurt at the thought of Blond and Mori being in a relationship? Tim quickly files the thought away into his “Do Not Touch” folder.)

“The blood on your hands isn’t something you can lose, otouto. All you can do is choose is whose.”

“You have to calm down. You came here for one more thing. Finish it and we can have a breakdown later.”

Blond takes a few deep breaths as he tries to regulate his breathing. Pushing away from Mori, he spins around to them.

“Right! Sorry about that.” He says voice infused with fake cheer.

Blond’s eyes roam over their family before landing on Tim.

“You,” He says, “Come here.”

“What do you want with him?” Dick asks.

“I’m not going to hurt him I swear! I just need to ask him a few questions.”

And well, Tim’s always been too courageous for his own good, so he steps forward.

Blond looks him up and down before saying, “Take the mask off.”

The entire family protests.

“We can’t do that.” Dick says, “It would compromise us.”

Blond waves his hand, “I already know who you are. Don’t worry about it.”

This sends the family into a silent frenzy.

“People will see,” Tim says quietly. Blond’s eyes snapped toward him.

“My men have had this area blocked off for a while. Nobody will see.”

Tim takes a deep breath and peels his domino mask off. Blond inhales sharply.

“Oh,” He says quietly like he’s wounded.

“There are those pretty blue eyes of yours. Such a shame you hide them behind your mask.”

Tim’s cheeks traitorously start blushing. Blond raises his hand as if to cup his cheek and Tim can’t help but wrinkle his nose at the blood dripping off the glove. Blond follows his eyes and snorts in amusement.

“Don’t worry, pretty bird.” He says “I’ll take them off.”

True to his word, Blond does take them off and reaches back out to cup his cheek.

His hand is warm, Tim thinks, Does he have a fever?

“Are you eating well?” Blond asks.

“What?”

“Are you eating well?”

“Yes?”

“Are you sleeping well?”

Tim grimaces, “Yes? Sorta?”

Blond frowns and Tim has the irrational urge to smooth out the wrinkle between his eyes.

“Okay, not really the answer I wanted to hear but I guess for you ‘sorta’ is better than an outright no.”

He smiles and drags his thumb across Tim’s cheek, “And lastly, Red Robin, and this is the hard one, are you happy?”

(“What the fuck is going on?” Jason asks flatly through the comms.

“I have no fucking idea.” Duke responds, “I feel like we shouldn’t even be watching this.”

Steph chimes in, “Cass wants to know if Tim already knew this man. I don’t think so but like isn’t this soooo Wattpad?”

“What the fuck is Wattpad?” Dick asks.

“Is Tim having his Y/N moment? Is that what this is?” Jason asks incredulously.

“Guys, shut up.” Babs hisses, “I’m kinda invested in this.”)

Tim swallows and shit, isn’t that a question for the ages. Is he happy? He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know anything outside of being Robin. If he’s not solving cases, he’s out on patrol. If he’s not out on patrol, he’s working with his team. When was the last time he ever did anything for himself? When was the last time he went skateboarding? Or played video games? When was the last time he hung out with people who weren’t heroes?

When was the last time he was just Tim and not Robin?

(Probably not since high school. Not since Darla and Ber-

We are not thinking about that.)

Tim swallows around the lump in his throat, “I don’t know.”

Blond’s eyes go sad, “That’s okay. You can figure it out.”

Tim can’t help but lean into the hand. Blond caresses Tim’s face one last time before pulling his hand away.

Blond puts the gun back into his coat.

“Well,” He says, “It’s time for us to leave. I don’t know if we’ll meet again but if we do, I hope your answers are more concrete next time.”

Blond leans in to touch their foreheads together, “Be well.” he whispers.

Tim’s breath catches in his throat, everything laser-focused on Blond’s face so close to his. If he leaned in he could ki-

Blond turns around and walks back to Mori. Mori lifts up his arm to wrap it around the other’s shoulders.

Just as they’re almost out of earshot, Tim finally finds his voice.

“Hey!” He shouts. They turn their heads toward him, “Do I know you?”

Blond laughs a little, it’s sad and it’s broken, “Once. A long, long, time ago.”

And the men walk away.

#this is part of an au i have #where after darla dies henry offers bear the position of his heir and bear initially refuses #but ends up joining on the condition that he works his way up. and he does eventually so #here's a scene from that au #please ask me about my au!!#mob boss!bernard au #basically it's my wattpad mafia story timber version #tim drake #bernard dowd #timber #dc

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gingerbreadmonsters · 9 months

Text

have and hold

or: take my unfinished life, and make it complete.

gn!reader, warning for major character death (...sort of), somewhere between hurt/comfort and angst with a happy ending? an odyssey, a hero’s journey, the actual fixing of the fix-it fic. this is the follow-up to reeling - i highly recommend that you read that first, or this isn’t going to make a huge amount of sense! spoilers for… death, i guess?? TOGETHER IN EVERY UNIVERSE. defibrillation, by any other name, would be as uncomfortable. inspired by moonraker by shirley bassey. ????? following the moonlight trail in just over 15,400 words.

a handful of warnings: fear of drowning (although it doesn’t actually happen), non-fatal electrocution, injury description, gore, dead bodies, mutilation mention, extended discussion of death and grieving. i know it sounds like a lot, but don’t worry - there is a happy ending, i promise!

this fic contains graphic content that may not be suitable or appropriate for readers under the age of 18. reader discretion is advised. 18+ ONLY. MINORS DNI. thank you.

if you missed part 1, you can read it here <3

series masterlist

There’s a part of me that’s convinced I’m going to wake up any second.

It’s so dark.

So dark, in fact, that it seems like there’s nothing there at all. So dark that it doesn’t feel like there’s anything, anywhere. Which really shouldn’t be a surprise, seeing as you don’t exist, and therefore probably can’t feel much of anything anymore.

Wait. That’s going to be a problem.

Because if you don’t exist, then how do you know it’s dark?

Hold on. It’s definitely dark, though. You know that because… well, it just is. So you must exist, because otherwise, you wouldn’t even know what darkness is, let alone what it looks like, which is to say nothing. Because you’re certainly looking at a whole lot of nothing right now. Or are you? Is there something there that you just can’t see? If you can’t see it, is it really there? Does it matter?

And anyway, if you really do exist, then who are you?

Fine, whatever - you’ll cross that bridge when you come to it, never mind the fact that bridges and crossings shouldn’t really matter to someone who shouldn’t really exist. If it actually is as dark as you think it is, then that means one of two things must be true.

Possibility one: your eyes are closed. Or you don’t have eyes. You try to open them, these eyes that you might have, and you feel something, but… nothing changes. How strange. You do it again, then once more - somehow you recognise the sensation of opening your eyes, that tiny movement of muscle somewhere in what you’re assuming is a face.

Okay, so moving on down to possibility two: there’s so little light here that opening your eyes doesn’t make a difference. Unfortunately, this option seems like the most likely one, which is a bit inconvenient because you still don’t know where here is, much less how to turn the lights on.

It would be really great if you didn’t exist enough to feel afraid, but it looks like that’s not the case. Don’t think about it. Even though the fact that you’re able to think about anything should probably be more of a concern than you’re making it out to be.

So it’s pitch black. But on the bright side, if you can’t do anything about it, then there’s no need to worry. Is there something else you can do instead?

Well, if you have eyes, then you might have a face. And if you have a face, then you might also have a head and a torso and arms and legs and all the other bits and pieces that some strange familiarity, deep down inside whatever you are right now, tells you that you ought to have. You can blink, possibly, which means you might be able to control at least some muscles. How about moving your-

Oh. That’s weird. As soon as you thought about having hands, you remembered that they were there. Yes, of course you have hands. And look - well, not look, it’s still really very dark - there are your feet, your knees, your chest and your hips and your back and every single bit of you that you’d apparently forgotten that you had.

How could you have forgotten something like that?

As all the newly-remembered parts of you blink back into your consciousness, you’re struck by another sensation. It’s movement - but not on purpose. How are you moving? Vaguely, you can tell that you’re lying down, but it feels like whatever you’re lying on isn’t stable. You’re sort of rocking from side to side, up and down, and your loose arms and legs aren’t bumping on anything that might be supporting you.

Hm. Maybe you were too quick to assume that something would be supporting you from underneath. Awkwardly, you try to twist round, flailing slightly as you try to feel if there’s something touching you, but there doesn’t seem to be anything there. Running your hands over your body, you - okay, you’re wearing clothes, that’s new.

You can’t quite figure out what type of clothes they are, but they feel pretty comfortable. As best you can tell, it’s some sort of t-shirt, a soft pair of trousers, socks, and shoes. The shoes seem quite flexible, and the ridges on the top might be laces - you’re probably wearing trainers, then. Yes, you can feel the treads on the soles. How athletic of you!

In any case, you couldn’t find anything touching you, so how are you staying in place? Or are you falling and you just can’t tell? Is there gravity here, in this place? Maybe you’re floating in space - oh, maybe that’s why it’s so dark! No light, and no gravity.

Actually, now that you think about it - and again, let’s not get into the philosophical implications of a being who shouldn’t exist even being capable of any sort of complex thought - isn’t there something wrong? You’ve got a body (yippee!), but that must mean that you’ve got all the things inside a body, right? Like a brain, and a heart, and a stomach, and lungs, and - wait, how are you breathing?

Unfortunately, you’ve thought about it now. Turns out you’re not in space, after all.

Water, freezing water in your mouth - your throat - your chest - an instinctive gasp, but all it does is make it worse. You’re floating, you’re floating, you’re drowning, you were underwater this whole time. Underwater? No time. You’ve got to get out, get out, but how? Thrashing, kicking, clawing at the water with weak, tingling limbs towards what you can only hope is the surface - is there a surface? There has to be, there has to be.

Some sort of muscle memory kicks in, or maybe you’re just naturally talented at trying not to drown. You must be going the right way, because soon the endless blackness around you starts to lighten. Bubbles floating up, up, up, and you follow - the current tries to beat you back, slamming you back and forth as you try to swim, but you have to breathe, and you can’t give up now.

It burns, it burns inside you, but it’s so close. Black gives way to grey, churning froth on the surface of the water - and you’re breathing again.

…Well, you’re mostly coughing and hacking up water, but once you’re finished with all that, then you’re breathing again.

Blearily, you rub the water out of your stinging eyes with one hand as you tread water. It’s a waste of time to fight the current pushing you along, so you let yourself be mostly carried by that. Luckily, there don’t seem to be any rocks sticking out of the water that you might hit, and you can’t see any animals swimming around that might hurt you.

To be honest, you can’t really see much of anything.

It hadn’t really occurred to you to wonder what sort of water you were floating in, but in the low light of wherever-you-are, it’s unmistakable. A black river, stretching out as far as you can see in both directions, sloping banks of black sand on each side and a cold, eerie mist hanging over the water. It twists and turns in the distance, swaying gently across the dim horizon with no end and no beginning in sight.

As long as it is, it doesn’t look all that wide. The wind is getting stronger, and you can feel your nose going numb from the chill. Maybe two or three hundred metres across, if you had to guess? Which, to be fair, is quite wide considering that you’re probably going to have to swim out of it, but it could be much worse. There’s a storm gathering overhead. Aren’t there rivers that are, like, tens or hundred of miles across? That would have been pretty bad.

Your fingers have gone all wrinkly. It’s probably time to get out now.

A swirling trail of white froth follows you, carefully trying to swim to shore without absolutely exhausting yourself. It hurts - you’re mostly swimming with the current, but the closer you get to the banks, the stronger the current gets. That’s weird. Isn’t it meant to be the other way around?

Onwards, onwards. The water gets choppier, surf and spray kicking up into your sore eyes and plastering your hair to your scalp. Is it just you, or does it feel like the water’s getting heavier? Like it’s getting denser, thicker, the weight of it dragging you back into the stinging depths. Tired legs, all the muscles in your stomach burning as you refuse to let your head dip under the water again. It’s clinging to you, tugging at your shirt like a child. Does it not want you to leave?

The thought makes you sad - yes, that’s it, you’re sad. That’s what that feeling is. Why are you sad? Are you lonely? Yes, you’re lonely, so lonely. But why? There’s nobody else here. You’ve never met anyone else before. How would you know how it feels to be lonely?

High above, the clouds flicker with light. The water swirls around you, and if you didn’t know any better, you’d say it seemed… nervous.

It’s probably worried for a reason, though. And why would you have any reason not to trust it? It’s been nice to you, right? It’s the only thing you’ve ever known, and maybe it’s the only thing you’ll ever need to know.

Costs are complicated, my precious listener. And wishes take many forms.

Perhaps you should stay. The River is lonely, can’t you see? It needs you, and you need it too, and you should give in. The storm is so close, thick, dark clouds barely distinguishable from the dim sky. Was that a voice, just now? Please, stay. You’ll be very happy, if you just let go. Trust the River, float along the River, dissolve into the River. It’s where you belong.

You’re on the wrong side of the mirror now.

Where you belong…?

Something about that strikes a strange chord inside you - dark movement in the corner of your eye, a song turning sour. You don’t belong here, do you? Is this really all there is for you?

It can’t be true. It can’t be. Because it’s cold - and you know it’s cold, so you must have felt warmth before. And it’s dark - you know it’s dark, because you know what light is. You know what clouds and shoes and sand are, you know how to blink and breathe and swim for shore. This water didn’t teach you that. You already knew.

The faint smell of ozone. This isn’t right. There’s more, there’s got to be more than this.

There’s something you should be doing. Something you can do. What is it? What are you forgetting? Water, water - what is it about water that you can’t recall? Something small and scared and shaking, curled up inside of you, shrinking back from a greedy hand in yours and a greedy heart that reaches out and - and - and-

A wave, breaking over your head in a shower of froth and foam. Coughing, hacking, spitting out water. What were you doing, again?

Cool water, sloshing over you, lapping at your - ah, that’s it. You were floating. It’s such a relief, to give your cold, aching body a rest. Hazily, you smile up at the strange not-light-not-dark of what might be sky up above you, and you don’t have to fight any more.

Well done. That’s good. Doesn’t this feel good? It’s starting to rain, splash-splash-splashing on the surface of the water. There are no voices here. Join us. You did the right thing. It’s going to be okay.

The tiniest itch in the back of your brain, words balanced on the tip on your tongue. Was there something you were supposed to remember?

I won’t let anything touch you. Nothing will stop me from keeping you safe.

Of course not. There is nothing else to see. You are meant to be here. But if that’s true, then how - why - what is this? Stop it, stop it, there’s something wrong - but what? The rain pours down, and down, and down. The River is the place you were always meant to be.

Sloshing, splashing, swimming - that’s it, you were swimming to shore! It’s so far away now, but you’ve got to try. Sodden clothes weighing you down, and the smell of ozone getting stronger and stronger. The current fights you, beating you back, but you won’t stop struggling, won’t stop fighting it.

This place has taken enough choice from us.

Stay with us. Your body burns cold, freezing slashes all over you, sharp claws tearing you apart under a black sky - but something inside you flares warm in your chest. It’s taking you apart, you’re bleeding, you’re gasping, you’re falling to the ground. The River will miss you if you go. No, no - that’s not right, that’s not right -

We’ll take the choice back. Together.

It’s too much - the air grows heavy in your lungs and your head spins as the waves crash over your head, as the pressure spikes and the rain falls and static electricity sparkles in the air around you. The reflection of your face in the water, the reflection of the sky in your face. It’s coming, it’s coming, and there’s no escape - thrashing against the weak weight of your body, struggling for shore.

The weight of the world, the glaring eye of the swirling storm staring right down through you. Things to hold on for. It’s going to hurt when it hits you, and you know it’s going to hit you. Here it comes, here it comes, the storm and the sky and the end, the end, the end-

Hold onto me. We’re getting out of here.

Lightning splits the sky with a scream.

You remember.

The world, your world, alive with sun and earth and steel. Running towards, running away, the smallest seed of bravery fed and watered until it became a beautiful flower. Warmth and joy and aching sadness. The smell of toast, slightly burnt - the sting of lemon juice in a paper cut you didn’t know you had. Dizzy mornings, cherry flavoured afternoons. The bolt of lightning strikes from the sky and forces its way into your heart, and gives you back to yourself.

The memories flood your brain, pouring in and filling every crease and crevice of your helpless form - names and faces and feelings that soak into all the soft parts of you, warm and bright and tender, swirling into the thick, dark blood. Darling Caelum, pink curls like soft candyfloss, mouth smeared with chocolate and giggling as he chases after the pigeons in the park. Huxley, sweeping you up in a great big hug, whiling away the afternoon over a game of Smash that just goes on and on and on. Damien - of course! - queueing up behind you in the cafeteria and pulling out his little bottle of that hand sanitiser he buys that smells like strawberries, carefully writing down everyone’s ice cream requests at the beach so he doesn’t forget anything. And Lasko, lovely Lasko, absolutely soaking wet after that summer fete when he accidentally volunteered for the professors’ sponge throwing stand, happily munching away at his box of pick and mix while you’re waiting for the film to start.

Your friends. Your friends, your wonderful, gorgeous, incredible friends. Lightning wracks your body in its burning grip, and you remember them.

Are you screaming? Does it hurt? A single instant, back bowed in a screeching arch and numb fingers clawing at the water. Power coursing through your body, electricity shredding through your bones and spilling out into the water, static sparks sent flying. Skin, muscle, bone - the storm sears a scorch mark straight through you, speared in place by a lightning bolt that cracks you open, rushes in and in and in-

Deviant!

A shock to the system - and your Core comes howling back to life.

If anyone asks, you’ll say you don’t know what happened next. All you know is the light, the seething, screeching light pouring out of you, and the sudden stomach-drop feeling of falling.

When you wake up, you’re alone. It’s dark again. You’re at the bottom of the River - and you’re completely dry.

Lurching to your feet in a daze, smeared with coarse, black sand that scrapes against the palms of your hands and gets stuck in the soles of your shoes. It takes a moment to sink in, and even then it still doesn’t really make sense. The dark water’s all around you, dizzyingly fast as it rushes over your head, but it’s like it doesn’t dare to touch you - when you take a tentative step forwards, it shrinks back in reply.

How rude. Was it something you said?

Never mind that - you’d better get out of here before it changes its mind. You start to walk, carefully perpendicular to the current, getting faster and faster until you’re properly running towards the shore. Before long, the sand underneath you starts to get steeper - above you, the water slowly gets lighter and lighter. You’re getting closer.

Reassured, you press on, thankful for the grip on the soles of your shoes as the damp sand and pebbles underneath you threaten to trip you up with every step. Come on, come on, just a little bit more! Falling over yourself in your scramble for the shore, you’re forced to catch yourself with your hands a few times when the sand slips out from under your feet, but you barely notice. There are more important things going on.

Finally, your head breaks the surface - well, the surface breaks for you. You’re still gasping for breath this time around, although that’s probably on you rather than the water. Gratefully, you stagger out of the water and up onto the riverbank, falling awkwardly to your knees in the sand, before admitting defeat and just sitting down properly with a relieved huff.

God, you’re tired. You could almost fall asleep right here and now, if it weren’t for the fact that you’ve seen way too many horror films to know that this is always the bit where the final girl thinks she’s safe and leans back, exhausted, against the door she just slammed shut, only for a dramatic camera change and a sudden violin stab as she gets dragged right back in by the killer.

(On an unrelated note, you scoot yourself a few metres further back from the water’s edge until you’re comfortably outside ankle-grabbing range. No reason.)

In front of you, the water carries on, as peaceful as ever. A gentle stream of blackness, a dark and winding trail that carves across the endless sands and disappears over the horizon. The storm has cleared. If you didn’t know any better, this would be a lovely spot for a picnic.

A minute passes. Then another, then another after that.

You made it. You’re alive.

Which is funny, because you remember dying.

Not very well. But enough. The Ward, sealing shut just behind you, a still black sky that could almost have been peaceful. Screeching, pushing, shouting - carnage as the field descends into writhing, churning massacre. Hard concrete under your feet, washed in eerie yellow light from inside the stadium. A cold, grim hand, crushing your terrified body in its grip. Blurry, bloody, dizzy. A scream.

Gavin.

Did he make it?

The question is enough to make you feel sick. Of course he made it. He must have. You can’t even begin to imagine a world where he’s not there. It doesn’t exist. It can’t exist.

You don’t know how - but you know it, utterly and irrevocably. He’s alive, somewhere out there, and you’re going to find him.

Who could stop you? What could stand in your way? Because you are alive, and you’re determined - even death was not enough. Whatever this place is, whatever the water did to you, it doesn’t matter. You’d tear reality apart for that man - no laws of space or time or matter could keep you from him now. You’re getting out of here, and you’re going home to him.

Pushing your aching body to stand, you can’t see a thing. Just miles upon miles of the same black sand, infinite in all directions, and a quiet, lonely river. Should you follow it? You’ll have to - there’s literally nothing else that you could follow, even if you wanted to. But upstream or downstream?

Well, it must be going somewhere. And if it’s good enough for the water, then it’s good enough for you. Maybe there’ll be someone there who can tell you what’s going on.

Before you go, you reach down and press a handprint into the sand. Proof, that you were here, that you ever existed in this place. A memory. A picnic that never was.

Then, the walk.

On, and on, and on.

To tell the truth, you’re not really sure how long you walk for. Years, probably. Decades. Or maybe it’s more like an hour? In all this nothingness, there’s really no way to tell. Trudging on, trainers sinking slightly into the sand with every step, it feels like time isn’t passing at all.

It’s possible, of course, that it isn’t. Time, that is. Passing. You’re dead, or you were, and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out what that implies about this place. Do they even have time here? If you turn around, you can see the long trail of footsteps behind you that definitely means you’re going somewhere, but beyond that you’ve got no idea how far you’ve walked.

Well, at least you’re wearing trainers.

(If you don’t laugh, you’ll cry. Of all the outfits you could have been stuck in as a ghost forever, why does it have to be that god-awful Games uniform? It’s comfortable enough, yeah, and it hasn’t got any blood on it or anything, but you don’t really want to spend eternity in joggers and a t-shirt. What a waste.)

Shifting sand, rushing water. The journey carries on.

The rhythmic crunch of sand under your feet is almost like a lullaby now, and as you walk, you dream. Every moment you can remember, every tiny part of him you know, everything you can possibly think of that reminds you of him - you dream it all.

In your mind, he’s more beautiful than ever. He’s sprawled out on the sofa in your living room, gaze following you around the room like a cat as he watches you fruitlessly search for the TV remote he’s hiding behind his back. He’s waiting for you outside the restaurant, shifting his weight from foot to foot every now and then, fiddling absentmindedly with the necklace you bought him. Gavin, your Gavin, elegant fingers covered in soap and hissing under his breath as he tries to extricate the bubble wand from where it’s fallen down inside the little bottle of bubble liquid.

Does he know where you are? Does he know that you’re coming? In your head, he does, he smiles and he laughs and he waits for you the way you’d wait for him - forever. A thousand million years might pass, but nothing changes.

Look at him. There he is - snoozing in the afternoon sun and holding Caelum’s hand and shielding you from Vega with his own body and using up all your hot water and whining about brain freeze from eating his ice cream too fast and blowing kisses at next door’s cat and the last thing you see as everything goes cold and your body hits the concrete and all your insides fall out.

Home. With every step, you remember him.

Speaking of steps, they’re getting very difficult, and you’re not sure why.

You’re not really sure how to describe it, but it’s like… static? Like interference on the radio, or something. That sort of fizzing, hissing, crackling sound - you don’t remember when it started, but it seems to have been getting louder the further you’ve gone. The world, too, is different - getting blurrier, fuzzier, the longer you look. You turn your head and it takes a minute for your eyes to catch up.

Five minutes and fifty-nine seconds.

Is it getting harder to breathe? Maybe the air is turning into static, too. But you can’t stop now - whatever this is, it must mean that you’re onto something. You must be getting close. Every now and then, you can almost make out the shape of words in the haze of noise that fills your brain.

Perhaps they’re calling to you. You push on for as long as you can, as the fog of static surrounds you like a sandstorm, the dullness of the black world becoming a flickering, glitchy grey. It’s heavy, pressing back against you like you’re swimming through tar, and it’s making something ache deep in your skull. No need to adjust your TV sets. Is this what they mean by an ‘electrical storm’?

Strangely, though, you’re not scared. If you listen carefully, you can almost hear his voice.

I haven’t even rung the bell yet.

It hurts, but you stagger on - and when you can’t do that you crawl, falling to your knees with a groan as the horrible fuzzy ache in your head gets worse and worse. Dissolving into static, splintering and blowing away in the breeze. The world isn’t so dark, now, but rinsed in colour - flashing and sparking, the smell of smoke. Red and blue, red and blue, red and blue.

The storm’s in you, now. Warm sand scraping your palms, it’s a struggle to drag your shuddering, flickering limbs deeper into the haze, but even as your strength starts to fail - as your mind starts to fade - as the pieces of you begin to disappear into this strange, stuttering world -

You’re going to have to go in blind.

- it’s fine.

Isn’t that fun?

It’s nothing. It’s nothing and it’s fine, and it’s so, so easy. It’s easier than dying, in fact, and you would know. A blissful smile, dissolving into static. He’s here - and you’re so close. That voice, half-remembered and always familiar. As your buzzing, glitchy body crumbles into the sand, the deal is sealed.

Somewhere, hidden deep within the realm of death, a door opens.

Have fun with Gavin. I suppose we’ll find out if it was worth it.

God, you’ve really got to stop falling asleep like this.

Thankfully, it’s not dark when you wake up this time - although, as the bright white world swims nauseatingly in your blurry vision, you almost wish it was. Wincing, you peel your face off the hard floor beneath you and push yourself to your feet, only to find that-

You’re in a…. museum?

Whatever you’d been expecting to see, it certainly wasn’t this.

It looks like you’re in the middle of some kind of gallery - painted eyes peer down at you from all over the room, where the walls are covered in paintings. There are two doors, one at each end of the room, and both seem to lead to more of the same.

How bizarre.

The painting to your right catches your eye, and you wander over to have a look. It’s huge, maybe two or three metres tall, and incredibly detailed - the focus is clearly the figure in the middle, outlined in moonlight as they stare out of the canvas. Staring up at them like this, you’re struck by how beautiful they are, the care that must have been poured into creating such a painting. Austere yet benevolent, solemn yet playful. They must have been loved very much.

They look to be standing on the beach, ankle-deep in dark seawater, and for a moment you’re reminded of the water you woke up in, not that long ago. Perhaps whoever painted this… no, they can’t have. It’s impossible.

Smiling slightly, you turn to look at the next painting.

Then the next.

Then another, then the one after that - then your smile is replaced by confusion, because all of these paintings are of the same person.

It’s a little unnerving, if you’re honest. Always the same eyes looking down at you, the same hands reaching out, the same face wearing the same smile. Who was this person, to have inspired such devotion? Where are they now?

A twinge of paranoia - you glance quickly up at the ceiling, checking for a camera, but finding something different. A big, rectangular skylight keeps the room bright - but when you look up at the glass, you’re not sure that it’s actually daytime. The light seems almost too white, no sign or sense of clouds or depth or a sky. And perhaps it’s just a sign that you haven’t been to as many museums as you should, but why are all the windows covered in netting?

Is it to keep something in? Or keep something out?

This is weird. Rattled, you make a hasty beeline for the door.

It’s not much good, though, as no matter where you go, the exhibit continues. It must go on for miles - you walk past what must be every sort of artefact a museum could possibly hold, and several more that it probably shouldn’t. Masks, friezes, clothes, photographs, maps, dolls, perfumes… This place is absolutely enormous, and the exhibit shows no sign of coming to an end.

For such an immense space, it’s beautifully kept, with not a speck of dust or stray fingerprint anywhere. And yet, somehow, it feels like the loneliest place in the world. A maze without a centre. An altar without a god.

Perhaps not.

Without really noticing, you drift to a stop in front of a statue - somewhere in the back of your mind, you realise that for all the many, many artworks you’ve passed, this is the only statue you’ve seen. It’s marble, perfect and pristine, and you can’t help but be utterly transfixed by its gaze.

It’s the same figure as everywhere else, but the pose is unlike any other you’ve come across. They’re standing and sort of leaning forward slightly, head tilted to one side and lips slightly parted. One arm curves inwards at about chest height, as if they were holding a mixing bowl or a beach ball or something, and the other reaches outwards, following their eyeline down to you.

For some reason, you have the strangest sense that they’re calling to you, one outstretched hand beckoning you forward into the cold cradle of their arms.

Dazedly, your feet carry you towards the statue, and you just catch a glimpse of the small, golden plaque that adorns the plinth it rests upon.

VENERATION.

The marble is hard and cold against your skin as you settle yourself awkwardly into the statue’s hold, but it doesn’t last - soon enough, it warms with your body heat until you barely notice it. With the way it leans forward, it’s difficult to keep your balance, but you manage. One arm comes up to hold the statue’s waist, and you loop the other around its neck, gently cupping the smooth, sculpted hair at the nape.

Proof of devotion. A hand presses into your back, and there’s only one thing to do.

Your eyes close as cool marble lips press against your own, leaning up into the statue’s kiss as you clasp it ever tighter, and something warm flickers to life inside you. Passion, rich and strong and full of joy. Like this, you’re reminded of another lover - another face, another hold, another kiss-

- and just like that, you’re somewhere else.

What?

The statue is gone, and the whole room too - your empty hands freeze in surprise for a second, before falling stiffly to your sides once it sets in. Was it a test? Did you pass? You must have, because this place is certainly no museum.

It looks to be some sort of control room, or perhaps a security room? A set of screens cover the opposite wall, and the room is full of computer desks and filing cabinets and all sorts of office paraphernalia - it would almost be boring, if it weren’t for the fact that it looks like a hurricane came through here about twenty minutes ago.

There’s paper everywhere, cracked monitors and overturned chairs, the alert board smashed and barely hanging onto the wall. What happened here? Cameras dangle limply from broken fixings near the ceiling, and when you take a step, the thin carpet feels like it’s - yep, that’s definitely soaked with water.

The room is bitterly cold and almost completely dark, lit only by the black and white buzz of static that covers every screen - even the smashed ones. That’s probably why you don’t notice it until you’re much, much too close.

Rounding one of the desks, you’re met with -

“I - oh, shit!”

- fucking hell, are they dead?

Stunned, all you can do is stare. There’s a woman’s body lying on the ground, soaked in water, and with some sort of thing, sticking out of her chest. Blood leaks from her eyes, her nose, her mouth, crystallising slightly in the cold. Singing static, humming away.

She’s not moving. Oh god, oh god, there’s a dead body on the floor, there’s a dead person literally right there - what the fuck do you even do? After a second, your hand flies to your mouth as you turn away, clutching the printer next to you in a graceless attempt to keep yourself upright. You’re very, very glad that there’s nothing in your stomach.

Idly, you notice that there’s a sheet of paper sitting in the output tray. For some reason, it only has one word printed on it.

SACRIFICE.

Well, that’s not ominous at all.

After a few deep breaths, you’re feeling slightly more settled. Luckily, the door is just a few metres away - keeping your gaze carefully off the floor, you pick your way through the mess of office junk to try the handle.

Nope. Nothing. You try again, a little more forcefully this time, but the handle refuses to budge. It must be locked, which is weird because there’s no keyhole or card reader or anything that might be able to unlock it. And anyway, why would you be able to lock a security room from the outside in the first place? You’re no expert, but that seems like a bad idea.

So the door’s locked. Fine, it’s fine, you probably should have expected that. A cursory glance around confirms that there are no windows, and no skylight either. So then, how…?

Fuck. It’s got to be something to do with the - the, um…

Unsurprisingly, she hasn’t moved when you turn reluctantly back towards her. You’re still not happy about having to get any closer - can you get diseases from dead bodies? Isn’t it true that they can make you sick? - but upon closer inspection, the thing in her chest isn’t a weapon. You’d thought she’d been stabbed or staked or something, but no.

It’s a flower.

A peony, unless you’re very much mistaken. The low light makes it difficult to tell, but it looks like it might be pink with big white stripes. The stem is long, maybe two or three feet tall, and the flower is enormous - about the size of your hand, petals all soft and fluffy-looking.

How does a flower kill someone? Unconsciously, you take a step closer, entranced by its beauty. Will it feel as soft as it looks?

Utterly mesmerised, you don’t even spare a glance at the dead woman’s face. The feel of the firm stem in your hand, the rich smoothness of the petals - the peony is just so utterly gorgeous that you can’t look away. It feels special, like a sacred offering to a god, or the delicate centre of a bride’s bouquet.

Something about it makes you want to cry. Something about it makes you want to kill. Something about it makes you hungry.

Wait, what?

Too late - just as the question registers in your brain, your thumbnail splits the stem with a sharp snap. Quickly, you catch the flower before it falls, cradling it in your hands as your mouth waters and your stomach growls.

“Mm - mmm…”

It tastes… good? No, more than that - it’s delicious, sweet and light and full of flavour. You’re suddenly starving, filled with this strange new craving that curls up in your throat and begs to be sated. Before you really know it, you’re burying your face greedily in the flower and stuffing your mouth with the delicious petals - you barely even notice the blood dripping from the forgotten stem, or running down your chin with every mouthful.

Chewing, chewing, swallowing. Your eyes flutter shut as a lovely stamen bursts between your teeth. You’re sure your bloody, pollen-covered smile must look absolutely monstrous, but you don’t care. Why should you? From confusion, comes pleasure - and you’re very, very pleased.

When you open your eyes again, wiping the tacky, sticky mess from your face with the back of your hand like a child, you’re not in the security room any more.

A great big hall stretches out in front of you, standing up on a sort of stage that looks out over what appears to be a ballroom of some kind. The floor is all dark wood, beautifully polished and the walls are adorned with beautiful portraits and enormous long mirrors, each in an elaborate gilt frame. Everything seems to shine in the half-light of sunset that floods in through the tall arched windows all along the left wall, deep red curtains opened wide, and the golden light of the chandeliers illuminate the painted ceilings high above your head.

It might be the most beautiful place you’ve ever seen. You go as if to take a step, to go down and move further into the room, but something stops you - a bizarre compulsion that tugs you backwards and turns you round.

Oh. You hadn’t noticed the throne.

It’s stunning, raised up on a beautiful wooden dais and surrounded by tall, elegant banners that seem to be embroidered with a kind of insignia, or maybe a crest. One of the patterns that repeats the most looks almost… familiar? It’s like a sort of double S-shape, one stacked diagonally on top of the other, with a thin, curving diagonal slash slicing through where they join. If you look quickly, it looks almost like rope, or maybe barbed wire - and does that shape in the middle look a little bit like an eye? Or is that just your imagination?

The throne itself is shorter than you were expecting, wide and rectangular in its base, and made up of intricate layers of scarlet lacquered wood and gold. An opulent golden screen towers behind it, decorated with carvings of dragons, flowers, phoenixes, mountains, stars, and so many tiny details that you’d be here all day if you tried to count them all.

Perhaps it’s a silly thing to say, but the throne seems to sing with power, even empty as it is. It looks like something from a storybook, the seat of a great king - no, a grand emperor.

It wouldn’t be right to actually sit on it, but maybe you could just… go up to it? It’s okay to look at it, right? It feels like it’s calling you, like it wants you to come nearer - and if it’s what it wants, then it must be fine. Probably. Yeah.

Hesitantly, you climb the stairs leading up to the platform, slow steps leading up to the throne until you’re right in front of it. Up close, it’s even more incredible. Mother-of-pearl curves along a dragon’s back, and a heavily-embroidered cushion sits neatly in the centre of the seat. Who on earth could such a magnificent throne, such a spectacular palace as this, even belong to?

That pull, tugging deep inside your chest, urging you towards the throne. Maybe it would be okay for you to sit down. Just for a little bit. There’s nobody here to tell on you.

You nervously settle yourself onto the throne, one hand clutching one of the armrests for support as you sit down. You’re half-expecting a big axe blade to swing out of nowhere and chop your head off for treason, or for some sort of trapdoor to open and drop you into a big spike pit for your heresy, but nothing actually happens - slowly, you find yourself relaxing just a little.

Hold on. That wasn’t there before… was it?

You must have missed it somehow - but now that you’re sitting here, it’s as plain as day. A square, marble platform in the centre of the room, black shot through with white lightning, maybe six feet across. A pile of wood surrounds a tall, sharp stake, scraps of rope dangling from about halfway down the sides, and oh, God, you know what this is.

You don’t want to do it. There has to be another way.

The pull in your chest thinks otherwise, though - it practically drags you down from the throne, tripping over your own feet as you stumble towards the unlit pyre. As you go, staring up at the stake in horror, you can see a word carved into the wood.

SUBVERSION.

You go, the unwilling executioner, climbing up onto the platform with a feeling like your heart is full of sand. There’s nobody here, so it shouldn’t really matter, right? More than anything, you’re hoping that this won’t hurt anyone.

(And even if it did…)

(Didn’t you say you’d do anything, to see him again?)

There’s no delaying it. You take one last, longing look at the beauty surrounding you, breathing it in for just a moment more, before crouching down and placing your hand on the pyre.

The familiar magic surges beneath your skin. Delicate flame catches dry kindling, and even as the fire swallows your vision, as the flames swallow you whole, you don’t look away. You wouldn’t want to miss anything.

Snapping, crackling, soft fat melting and dripping off the bone. Warm light sears your eyes as the fire grows and grows, brighter and brighter until it’s white-hot and blistering - helpless against the pain, you’re forced to squeeze your eyes shut and press your palms against your face to block out the brightness. Sunlight on your skin, sunlight in your skin, and just like that-

- it’s morning.

It’s changed again. Slowly, the world comes into focus as you blink the blurriness away. Gone is the grand ballroom of before, replaced by a dark, messy bedroom. The curtains are shut, but the gaps between the edges of the fabric and the windowframe let little stripes of sun fall over the navy blue bedspread.

Hope flutters in your chest for a moment, but it quickly disappears. It’s a bedroom, but it’s not your bedroom - the bed is the wrong size, and the walls are the wrong colour, and the door should be behind you when it’s actually to your left. Someone else’s house, then. Someone else’s home. You won’t cry.

It feels a little bit uncomfortable, poking around in a stranger’s bedroom, so you just take a cursory glance around before heading for the door. It’s clearly lived in, bed unmade and towel still slightly damp where it’s hanging over the back of the desk chair. You pull the door open, carefully avoiding tripping over the pair of slippers sitting innocuously on the floor, and head out into the rest of the house.

Upon closer inspection, it appears that you’ve arrived in someone’s apartment, though they don’t seem to be home. Peeking out through the living room curtains, you don’t recognise the skyline, so it can’t be Dahlia, though the architecture doesn’t look that different. It’s decorated in a fairly conventional, American style, too. You can’t be that far away from home.

The thought makes you ache, but it’s no use trying to leave. The front door remains resolutely locked, no matter what you do, and the windows are the same. You can’t even break the frame, or smash the glass. For some reason, you’re reminded of a fish tank.

A single toothbrush in the bathroom, a single glass of water on the coffee table. It’s funny - from all of the stuff you can see, it only looks like one person lives here. So why, then, do you have the uncanny feeling that it should be two?

The story is the same when you go into the kitchen. It’s tiny, more of a kitchenette than anything else, and if you didn't know the place was empty, you could almost believe that whoever lives here had only just left the room. A faded plastic cereal bowl sits on the kitchen table, spoon propped up against the rim, next to a plastic cup that presumably used to have orange juice in it.

The open cereal box on the table catches your eye - big, cheerful letters on a colourful box. What an unusual name for a brand of cereal. Maybe it’s new.

DEVOTION.

You reach for the box, printed cardboard all smooth and shiny. Curiously, you turn it over in your hands, looking for anything that could help you figure out what’s going on, but there’s nothing. And not nothing as in ‘none of the information is helpful’, but nothing as in ‘there’s literally no other text on the box’.

There’s not even a sell-by date or anything. It suddenly occurs to you that you haven’t seen any other writing at all, anywhere in the apartment.

Fuck, this is too much - you need something to eat. Or maybe drink? Now that you think about it, you’re really thirsty. When was the last time you drank anything?

(Before you ask, the answer’s no. Weird black water from the death river in the endless desert hell dimension doesn’t count.)

Yeah, something to drink would be nice. Something warm, something comforting, that reminds you of home in this place that isn’t quite right.

Funnily enough, there’s a kettle just behind you on the counter when you turn around. How fortunate! The familiar rhythm kicks in, filling up the kettle and putting it on to boil, although it takes a moment to find a teabag in the cupboard. Two, actually. You always make two cups of tea - Gavin’s been getting really into it lately, and he always insists that you two match.

To tell the truth, you’re not actually sure why he’s so fascinated by tea. He likes hot chocolate because it’s nice and sweet, but not coffee - even when it’s practically ninety percent milk and sugar, he still won’t drink it. You can almost see him now, glaring disdainfully down at the cup on the table like it’s radioactive or something. No, no - too bitter! Deviant, why does anybody drink this stuff? It’s horrible…

Absent-mindedly, you reach up and take two mugs out of the cupboard, one blue and one purple. He says it’s because he never used to drink hot drinks, which sort of makes sense. From what he’s told you about his life before you met, he wasn’t really spending time at the sorts of places that serve Darjeeling as a matter of course.

Breathing in the steam, the smell of home. He likes it with lots of milk and a little bit of sugar. The teaspoon clinks against the side of the mug, and you know that when your eyes open again, you won’t be here any more.

The thought makes you sad, in a weird, cold sort of way. Even if this place isn’t home, it’s close enough. The world you’re fighting to get back to, the life you’re trying to find again, slipping through your fingers like sand. Will you ever come home again?

This can’t all be for nothing. These places, the things you’ve seen - it can’t all be for no reason, can it? It’s a test, it has to be. You have to believe that there’s a reason for all of this. Have faith. A familiar, staticky hand in yours, your demonic Eurydice, and you won’t look back.

You’ll be home soon. Sleepy, dizzy, muscle memory. And when you’re home, when you find your way home to him, you’ll make as many cups of tea as you could ever drink.

You open your eyes to complete and utter darkness.

The first thing you notice - well, other than the fact that you can’t see - is the chill. It’s cold, but not like you’re outside. There’s no breeze. It’s more like someone’s left a window open, or forgotten to turn the heating on.

The second thing you notice is the breathing.

There’s no way to tell where it’s coming from, but that’s definitely what it sounds like - something breathing, quiet and shallow and much too close for comfort. You freeze, looking left and right like you might be able to see it, but it’s no good. It’s so dark that you may as well be blindfolded.

Clumsily, you stick your hands out in front of you, gingerly feeling around for something to guide you. An involuntary shock goes up your spine when your left hand hits something hard, but you quickly realise it’s a wall. Are you inside a building, then? Your right hand quickly finds the opposite wall - you must be in a corridor of some kind.

After all of that, your eyes have ever-so-slightly adjusted to the dark, and you can just about make out a faint brightness about ten feet or so in front of you. Is something there?

Your steps are stilted, awkward as you shuffle forwards into the dark, left hand pressed firmly against the wall to keep you steady while the other fumbles stiffly in front of you, ready in case you bump into something. And maybe it’s just virtue of the friction between your trainers and the floor, but doesn’t it feel kind of… sticky? Tacky, like something hasn’t quite dried yet?

Gritting your teeth, you keep on inching forwards until suddenly, the wall under your hand disappears. Panic flares in your mind and you gasp involuntarily, clumsy fingers grasping at thin air until you find it again.

Feeling around, it seems like the corridor is about to turn a corner. That must be where the light is coming from. Taking a deep breath, and pointedly not thinking about whatever else might be breathing in here, you creep slowly around the corner to find -

- oh, thank goodness, it’s only a door.

Well, you think it’s a door. You can see two thin, rectangular windows that look about the right height and width to be set in a door, and the pale light that filters through the stained glass hints at what might be an entryway. You must be in a house, and this corridor must be the hallway.

Relieved, you start walking a bit faster. The light is still very low, but you can’t see any obstacles or people in front of you, so you should be fine. Anyways, you know where you’re going now, so hopefully you’ll just be able to unlock the door and-

“Shit - ow, ow!”

In your haste, you don’t notice it - you trip over something on the floor and it sends you sprawling, arms instinctively reaching out in front of you to break your fall. Luckily, it’s not that bad of a tumble, and although it knocks the breath out of you, it doesn’t feel like you’ve broken anything.

Whatever it was you tripped over can’t have been very big, maybe the size of a football or so? And judging by the way you fell, it must be behind you now. Blindly, you twist around to try and peer into the dark, before realising far too late that you’ve had a source of light all along.

A handful of fire flares to life in your hand, warm and comforting, to show you Alexis Solaire and her dead, empty face.

Horrified, you can’t scream. You can’t even move, paralysed at the sight of the Solaire princess lying dead in front of you, still wearing her elegant, golden tiara, delicate pearls tangled in her hair. No, no, that’s not even all of her - numbly, you realise that she’s not - she’s been - her head, she’s - fucking hell you just tripped over her head-

Your body floods with delayed adrenaline, and it knocks you out of your daze. You scramble backwards as fast as you can, trying desperately to put as much distance between you and her as you can. Fuck, that must have been why the floor was so sticky - oh, God, that’s not funny, it’s really not, but you almost want to laugh.

How is she even here? Gavin’s mentioned her before, something about a fancy vampire party and a very sharp ornamental cane, but only ever in passing. Although you’ve never met her, you’ve seen pictures, and there’s no mistaking that face.

God, it feels like your limbs are made of lead as you scrabble to get away, only for your hand to brush against something cold behind you. What is - shit, what is it, it’s cold and it’s wet and it’s-

This time, you do actually scream. Dark hair, sharp teeth, thick blood. Fire dripping from your palm, low light reflecting off the dark wooden floorboards, and glittering in the unseeing eyes of Vincent Solaire.

He’s just lying there, soaked in blood - you have to clamp your hand over your mouth at the sight of him, soft insides gleaming in the firelight where his stomach is torn open, flesh sliced to ribbons and neck barely keeping his head attached to his body. He almost looks like he’s smiling, though maybe that’s just the claw marks gouged deep into his pretty face, tearing messily through his eye and down across his cheek.

You must be in hell. This must be hell. How else could he be here? Vincent, wonderful Vincent, good sweet kind Vincent - who could have done this to him? He and Gavin have been very good friends for years, and ever since you were introduced, you’ve always liked him. He’s funny and charming and endlessly devoted to his partner - the four of you get on like a house on fire, and you’d been planning on going out somewhere to celebrate after the Games.

Please say it’s not true. This can’t have been what happened - he can’t have met the same fate as you, can he? A useless death, body shredded and soul gutted by a Shade? He’s a vampire, for God’s sake, he’s miles faster and stronger than you ever could have been. He must have made it out.

You swallow a shuddering, gasping sob, finally managing to rip your eyes away from the mangled corpse in front of you, and that’s when you notice it. Torn, ruined fingernails. Scratch marks in the floorboards, clawed painfully into the wood by desperate, dying hands.

BLINDNESS.

That’s it, that’s it - you’ve got to get out of here. Scrambling to your feet, you stagger past Vincent’s body and drag yourself to the door, trembling fingers struggling with the latch - the blood makes them slippery, but eventually you hear it click. Hurriedly, you go to push the door open, but - but-

You can’t just leave him.

This probably isn’t real, and you know it perfectly well. Whatever you do here likely doesn’t matter, and once you’ve left, chances are that nobody will ever know what you did.

But you’ll know. You’ll know what happened here, and you’ll know that you left your friend’s body to rot, forgotten, in the dark forever. And most of all, you’ll know that you can never forgive yourself.

Slowly, you pull the door open, turning with it to face back into the hallway as the hinges creak. You’ll need both hands for this next bit.

Pale light seeps around the new gaps in the doorframe, painting most of Alexis’ face and Vincent’s back in cold, white light. Somehow, it doesn’t make it any better. You try not to look as you carefully hook your arms under as much of Vincent’s body as you can, and you don’t want to think about why he’s so light. You don’t want to know what that awful, wet sound of something falling out of the gash in his stomach is, and you don’t want to know what that cold liquid soaking into your shirt is.

The world blurs unexpectedly in front of you, and you realise that you’re crying. It doesn’t matter, nobody will know, but you’re crying anyway. His head, lolling too far back against your arm - glistening bone peeking out between snapped tendons and sliced muscle. Hot tears pour down your face as you nudge the door open with your foot, weak light blinding you after the darkness of the corridor.

Gently, you make sure he doesn’t hit his head against the doorframe. The taste of sweet toffee. As the weight of Vincent’s body dissolves in your arms, you just cry, and cry, and cry.

Head aching, you’re vaguely aware of the hard earth rocking beneath you. At least there’s a nice breeze out here. The smell of salt, and the sound of the sea.

Wait, what?

Rubbing the tears from your bleary, tired eyes, you can see that you’re not outside a house at all - although you’re definitely outside. Wood, rope, iron. Flags flutter joyfully atop a towering mast, cream-coloured sails bright against the blue sky, and you realise what that rocking feeling really is.

It’s not the earth at all. Somehow, you’ve ended up on the deck of a ship, in the middle of the ocean.

It’s not even a particularly modern ship - it sounds ridiculous, but it really does look like one of those old-timey pirate ships from a film or a book or something, with rigging and a crow’s nest and one of those big wooden wheels with the spokes that you use to steer. Maybe it’s some kind of historical recreation? Or maybe you’re a time traveller! That would be cool.

(You are aware, of course, that it probably isn’t time travel. This is almost certainly an elaborate fantasy induced by an unknown supernatural entity, or a figment of your dying imagination, or some sort of weird liminal space between states of being. Even so, it’s nice to dream, you know?)

Something about this feels different. You’re not really sure how to describe it. All those other places - that weird museum, the empty apartment, that ballroom with the throne - they all felt strange. Not just in the sense that you didn’t know what was happening, but more like you… like you didn’t belong there?

It’s hard to put into words. Like you didn’t fit, a puzzle piece not just in the wrong place but in the wrong box entirely. Does that make sense? Out of place, not quite right, like poles repelling. Unsettled, as if the world wasn’t made for you, wasn’t ready for you to be in it. But here, on the deck of a ship you almost recognise, you feel like you’re back in the box again.

You can’t see anyone around, which is mostly a relief, but does make you a little bit uneasy. Didn’t ships like this need a crew, to keep it running and everything? How are they steering - is anybody steering this thing?

You climb the short stairs up to the quarterdeck, wooden bannister smooth under your palm. From up here, you can properly see the whole deck, and yeah, there’s nobody here. Nobody at the helm, either. It should probably worry you more than it does, but the wheel doesn’t seem to be moving at all.

Does that mean it’s fine? It’s probably better than if it were just spinning freely. Oh, whatever - you’re no sailor, and anyway, there doesn’t seem to be anything around that you might crash into.

In fact, you can’t really see anything at all. Just endless sea and cloudless sky, bright sun shining down, and the ship beneath you.

You’ve got to stop just calling it the ship. Does it have a name?

It must be written somewhere. They normally write the name on the side of the ship, don’t they? If there’s anywhere on the ship you should be able to see it from, it should be up here.

Hesitantly, you walk over to the railing to check, boards quietly creaking under your feet. This is the port side of the ship, isn’t it? Yeah, port means left and starboard means right. Wait, but is that left when you’re on the ship, or looking at the - you know what, it doesn’t matter. The important thing is that you can see something.

It’s a little bit tricky to actually read, seeing as the letters are upside down and also several metres directly underneath you, but you can see it as clear as day. Ah, of course. You probably should have guessed.

FAITH.

It makes sense. By which you mean it doesn’t, but that’s kind of what you were expecting.

The sea is getting choppier, spray kicking up against the side of the ship. For a second, you could swear you see something colourful moving under the water - but just as quickly as you see it, it’s gone.

Now, the sensible thing to do would be to go back down onto the main deck, try to get into the interior of the ship, and have a look around for anything there that might help you. That would probably be a good idea, seeing as you’re literally stranded on a seemingly-abandoned ship in the middle of nowhere in a dimension that might not actually exist.

Unfortunately, that plan assumes that you’re going to be sensible about this.

Are those bells you can hear, ringing wide across the ocean? You don’t know, and you don’t want to - the sea sloshes around inside you, bubbling and swirling in your brain until it’s all you can think about. It always seems to come back to water, these days. Will it be warm, when you break the surface?

It’s a terrible idea, so naturally you’re already halfway through doing it. With a grin, you push off the railing and run, as fast as you can, towards the other side of the ship. If you’re going to do it, you might as well do it properly.

Church bells, wedding bells, far away across the sea. Stepping up onto the side of the ship, breathing in the sea breeze. This is how it goes, in stories - emerging from water, shorthand for a baptism. Pushing off, floating through space, speared halfway by the golden line of the horizon. Revival, rebirth.

A leap of faith. If you’re fated to reject your fate, then does the universe cease to exist?

Down and down and down, falling into the shadow of the ship above you. Feeling rather than seeing the splash. One last gasping breath, eyes slamming shut just as you hit the water, and for some reason, you have the strangest urge to say hello.

Dark water, once again.

I’ll hold on.

Soaked and sodden and tumbling towards the ground.

I’ll make all this pain worth it.

Things to hold on for. Black earth and the crumbling concrete, getting closer, breathing out, closer, breathing in, falling falling falling until -

Hold me?

- you're awake.

Of course.

You should have known.

Lying down again, enveloped by the crushing dark, you know exactly where this is. Where else would the water take you?

Slowly, you reach up and dig your fingers into the ground above you, pulling away a handful of the soft, damp earth. Then again, then again, greedy hands clawing at the dirt like an animal. It's warm, down here in the suffocating smallness of the ground.

You want to scream, but you think better of it. Then you think about it again, and you change your mind - so you open your mouth, and something pours out.

It's impossible to tell what it is. Perhaps it's noise, something liquid between a howl and a sob, thin and watery as it runs down your chin and soaks into the earth. Bubbling up through your throat, staining your lips and teeth with pain - you tear viciously at the stifling earth, each breath a howl, each howl a weak, stuttering keen that burns your lungs and twists your insides into knots.

Soil rains down with every handful, in your eyes and your hair and your mouth, but it doesn’t stop you. The taste of sweet earth is sickly and bitter. Your perfect cavity is ruined, neat edges and sharp corners crumbling away, a fish trapped on the hook as you thrash your way up and up and up.

You’re almost there. Finally - finally! - your fingers break through, grasping and clawing at the grass, and you dig yourself free of your grave.

The cold air of a winter night hits your skin, and you breathe a sigh of relief. You must be a pitiful sight. Spitting out soil, covered in filth, picking the packed earth out from under your fingernails, and it doesn’t even matter, because you’ve just -

Oh, God.

You’ve just realised where you are.

Your grave. The backlit shadow of the stadium looms above you, blinding against the black sky of a ward that will never come down. You were wrong about why this felt familiar. Not the place you were buried. The place you died.

Is it bad to say that it’s exactly how you remembered it to be?

Well, not exactly. There aren’t any other people, and you can hear the low buzz in the air that the ward generates, fizzing against your skin instead of being drowned out by shouts and screams. But other than that, it’s very, very close.

Standing still, a perfect bubble of a snowglobe, frozen in the moment that your life came to an end. The air doesn’t move, your heart doesn’t beat. If you look closely, you can almost see it - the Shade, throwing itself towards you as you scramble away, unearthly claws tearing cold through your body, shrieking in its feast as your mind slows and shudders, until it just… stops.

Beneath your feet, grass becomes familiar concrete. Numbly, you stare at the wide, dark smear that your blood painted on the ground as you fell to pieces, and you want nothing more than to never know anything ever again.

It’s… bigger than you thought it would be. Hm. You never even knew you had that much blood inside you.

There’s a word, stained into the concrete, finger-painted through the flaking pool of your blood left behind. In your mind’s eye you see the hand shaking, the heart bursting, the tears pouring down the perfect face, contorted in agony.

PERSISTENCE.

An extended existence, continuation in the face of defiance. A haunting. Love, that doesn’t realise it has died. The quality of being kissed by a ghost.

Time passes.

You’re not sure how long, and you’re not sure what you do while it happens. Mourn, perhaps. You did die, after all.

A strange sort of grief swirls inside you like a storm, and you cry for a very long, or maybe a very short, time. You’d never really imagined mourning your own death, and you’d not really expected to have to come to terms with it. After all, you’d… well, you’d be dead. Dead people don’t generally have to come to terms with anything at all.

You probably ought to revise that hypothesis, come to think of it. You’re definitely dead, and you’re definitely having to deal with it, so presumably it must be wrong. Or would you say that you’re the exception that proves the rule?

At some point in the endless present, the storm subsides. It doesn’t disappear, but you walk and it doesn’t stop you. The entrance to the stadium beckons, and despite the fear of what you know is inside, you’re helpless to resist the yawning mouth of the anglerfish.

Two halves, sewn together. The only way over is through.

A bloody trail of footprints follows you, though you never turn around. Plastered with dirt from head to toe, a tiny figure at the foot of the stadium, you leave your aching death behind.

Your hand closes around the smooth, square handle. The door opens with a cheerful ding!

Rebirth, a new old beginning. Without even realising it, your face splits into a beaming smile.

You know where the machine is - you’ve been here a million times before. Left, then straight on, then turn right and it’s halfway down the aisle. The floor is uncomfortably sticky around this bit, but that’s not really a surprise, and you’re so used to it that you barely even notice.

The stark white brightness of the square ceiling lights is no more flattering than ever. Neatly, you take one of the clear plastic cups from the dispenser, scanning the machine for which flavours there are.

There's no point, of course. All of the labels are blank, just brightly-coloured squares, and muscle memory is all you need to guide your hand to the single tap that has a name.

FORTUNE.

Fizzing, sloshing, bright pink fills your cup, bubbling up inside and making the plastic cold in your hand. When it’s full, you take a lid and a straw from the holders next to the machine, and the sound of the straw punching through the cross on the lid sounds like home.

Yum. It’s been a while since you’ve had a Big Gulp.

It’s kind of a delayed reaction, but as you're walking back up to the front, you’re suddenly aware that there’s actual writing in here - more than just a single word, although not exactly back to normal. The shelves are laden with their usual fare, but the names aren’t quite right - your curiosity gets the better of you, and you decide to have a look around before heading to the till.

It’s very bizarre. Condensation slides down the side of the cup and drips onto the floor as you examine the rows and rows of colourful energy drinks in the fridge cabinet, Blood or water, baby? printed on the side of every can. A row of chocolate bars says You’re looking good today, sweetheart, as the shelf of chewing gum declares That’s you, by the way.

The aisle on your left catches your eye, crisp packets plastered with words you feel you ought to remember. For my sunshine. BE MINE. Fancy seeing you here, hmm? Three-flavour multipacks, thick stripes of colour, labelled High ceilings, smooth stone, stained glass.

It’s utterly bizarre. Packets of biscuits that say One last miracle. Bottles of water declaring that Perhaps it really is impossible to outrun your own nature. Bags of sweets with CHOOSE WISELY, DARLING printed on them, cereal boxes that say Tell him we’re gonna be late, soft drink bottles that ask Is that a threat or a promise, my love?

The words make you feel funny, like your head’s too heavy and your heart’s too light. The shelves of shiny instant ramen packets reflect the white lights overhead, covered in questions - It is said that as long as a person is loved, they are alive, is it not? Are you playing Heart and Soul? What happens to love, when it’s forced to die?

Before long, you find yourself gravitating back towards the till at the front of the shop, idly taking in the posters that line the walls and windows. They, too, are just as weird as the rest of this place. May fate find you kindly, child of land. I will move heaven and earth for you, and you will never be afraid again. Aren’t you forgetting something?

It’s so dark outside, but you can just about see the stars. The air-conditioning is slightly too strong to be comfortable.

Ah, here’s the till. After all, you can’t leave without paying.

Unsurprisingly, there’s no queue. You place your cup on the counter, and when you stick your hand in your pocket, there’s a single note waiting there. It’s unexpected and entirely what you thought would happen.

It’s all folded up - carefully, you flatten it out on the countertop and hold it up to the light overhead. The design is just as unusual as everything else in here, and the text across the top says I was there when it was invented, you know. The face on the note - oh, you really should have guessed. Your beautiful, wonderful, ridiculous idiot, smiling back at you. Of course he’s on the five dollar bill.

The back is different, too. Instead of the Lincoln Memorial you’re used to, there’s a picture of… some kind of statue? Six stone figures, all in a line. The detail isn’t all that great, seeing as it’s printed on a banknote and all, but you feel like you recognise them somehow. Printed above their heads are the words Together, or not at all.

There’s no cashier to give it to, so you just kind of… leave it on the counter. Five dollars should be more than enough, right? You’re only getting a drink. The display screen attached the till says What’s mine is yours, love. The post-it note taped to the front of the tip jar has no words, just the imprint of a red lipstick kiss.

Oh, you should probably leave a tip. Do you have any more money?

Checking your pockets again, there’s nothing there. Damn. You don’t really have anything on you at all, so you’re kind of at a loss.

Actually, there might be one thing. Quickly, you nip back over to the self-serve machine and take one of the paper napkins from the dispenser. Then another one, just in case, before going back to the till.

Well, you’ve always been good at following instructions. You fold the napkin in half, then in half again, before closing your eyes and pressing a sweet, happy kiss to the dry paper. Without lipstick it doesn’t leave a mark, but as you reach over to drop it into the tip jar, it’ll have to do.

Cold plastic, condensation. When you walk over to the door, it won’t open.

Puzzled, you try again. Is it locked? It certainly feels that way, but who locked it? You’ve not been in here that long, and you haven’t seen anyone who might have had a key, which means that it’s probably something else the door is looking for.

The confusion only lasts a moment - you’re starting to think you know how this works, which probably means it’s nearly over. You look down at the cup in your hand, and finally read what’s printed on the plastic.

Sleep well, lovely deviant. I hope you dream of me.

A beautiful afternoon in the sun, a nightmare at its end. Smiling, you close your eyes and knock three times on the door, just like normal. Your hand presses flat against the glass, and it’s not glass any more. A key turns in the lock, and you step over the front doorstep of home.

Home.

Finally. At last, at last you’re here, and you could almost cry with relief at the sight of your brilliantly familiar, wonderfully normal, perpetually messy hallway. Shoes litter the left hand side of the corridor, scuffs all over the skirting board, and the coat hooks are as overburdened as ever. The picture frame on the right is slightly crooked, and the ceiling light needs a new bulb.

It’s a fucking mess. You’ve never been happier in your life. Afterlife. Whatever. You’re really happy, is the point.

You can’t be bothered to unlace your trainers, so you just kick them off, one hand on the wall to steady you. Hm. Your drink must not have survived the trip from the 7/11, because it’s not in your hand anymore. Did it disappear when you crossed the threshold or something?

Gently, you push the door into the living room open, but there’s nobody there. Everything is just as you left it, though, from the blanket hanging over the arm of the sofa to the pile of old receipts cluttering up the coffee table. Of course! You’d forgotten about those. They’d been taking up half the space in your backpack, so you’d just emptied them all onto the side and said you’d come back later.

You can hear something moving. Is that the tap running? It must be something in the kitchen. There are fresh flowers in the vase on the mantelpiece - your favourite kind, deep pink and beautiful. Trying not to get your hopes up, you follow the sound deeper into the apartment.

The kitchen door is slightly ajar. Someone must be in there. You lean in to peek through the gap between the door and the frame, and - and - and-

Numb fingers reach for the handle, pulling it open. Ever so quietly, you knock three times against the doorframe.

“Honey, I’m home.”

The water stops.

It’s completely silent.

The demon standing in front of the sink looks like he’s seen a ghost.

You smile, tears already starting to fall. “Did you miss me, my love?”

You’re not sure how it happens - maybe he rifts to you, or you run to him, or something in between. Whatever it is, you barely have time to blink before you’re in his arms, swept up in the lovely rush of him, and you’re really, properly home.

“Deviant,” he sobs, claws digging into your skin as he clutches you close like he’s terrified you’ll disappear. “Is - you’re - oh, God, deviant, I-”

Somehow, he’s ended up with his back to the island in the middle of the room, leaning against the cupboards. The kitchen tile is cold against your legs, sprawled against him as you are, but you barely even notice.

What a pair you make, hm? Curled up on the kitchen floor, wailing into each other’s shoulders, clinging to each other like the world’s about to end. At last, your drowned odyssey comes to a close.

Gavin, pretty Gavin, precious Gavin. He’s here, and he’s here with you - he’s alive and he’s okay and you’re never going anywhere without him ever again.

“Say it’s real. Say you’re here.” His voice cracks as his fingers twist into your shirt, hands roaming your body in hopeful disbelief. “Please. Tell me it’s not a dream again.”

“It - it’s not a dream,” you choke out, clumsily brushing the wetness from his cheek with the heel of your hand. “Promise.”

It’s all he needs - you can’t help but smile as he drags your face up to his, until you’re laughing and kissing and crying all at once. Your impatient hands trail across every part of him you can reach, from the pointed tips of his horns to the spade of his tail, relearning him, remembering him.

“How did you - you were-” He cuts himself off by kissing you, one hand in your hair and the other pressing against your back. “You were dead, my love.”

“I know,” you say. You were there when it happened, after all. “I remember.”

“But - but how?” Above you, the sound of water dripping from the tap. “How did you come back?”

“I-”

You go to answer, but the words don’t come. “I don’t know,” you say, haltingly. You’re not actually sure. “I was just… awake.”

He looks between you and the door, baffled. “Here? Just now?”

Tucked against his chest, you shake your head as best you can. “No. Somewhere else.” The memory makes you shiver a little. “It was like a desert, I think. The sand was black and the river was black and I swam to shore.”

“A river?” He sounds confused, before his voice turns strangely frantic. “You woke up in the River?”

“Yes…?” you reply. Why does he seem to recognise it? “There was a storm. The lightning hit me, and I remembered you.”

He looks a little stunned, if you’re honest, though you can’t tell quite why. “So you came here…”

“I don’t know how,” you admit, a little embarrassed. “It looked like a sandstorm, or like static on a TV. I fell asleep again, and then it took me to all these - all these places.”

“Oh - oh, um…”

He trails off, hiding his face in your hair. “I think that may have been me.”

“The - wait, you what?”

The double-take you do is almost comical. That was… not what you expected him to say.

“You - it - how?”

He takes a deep, shaky breath.

“Deviant, this place… It’s not actually home.”

Clearly, you look as confused as you feel as he babbles on. “Well, it is, but not, like, the place it looks like - although, I guess, er, I mean - it’s - there’s not, uh-”

“Gavin.” He’s very sweet when he starts rambling, but it’s not really the time right now.

Thankfully, he startles out of it, instinctively leaning into your hand as it settles against his face. “Yes? Oh, um - we’re not actually in Dahlia, right now.”

His tail flicks behind him, and a pulse of psychokinesis pulls the blinds over the kitchen window open. In shock, you stare up at the night sky, full of stars and with absolutely no city in sight.

“This isn’t the same… reality, I guess,” he says, like it’s nothing. “I made this place.”

“You-”

He made it?

It sounds like a joke, a really fucking awful one, but you know he wouldn’t lie to you about something like this. “Say it again?”

“You died.”

The tap drips.

Once, then twice, then three times.

“You died, and I - I just - I couldn’t.” His eyes squeeze shut as he rests his head on yours, and your heart feels like it’s breaking in half. “You were gone, and it wasn’t right, and I had to do something.”

God, he sounds so tired. “When I said I’d keep you safe, I meant it. I always mean it. When that - that thing-”

He stops, and you can feel the muscles in his chest flutter as he tries to suppress a sob. Desperately, you wrap your arms around him and press your face into his neck, trying to give whatever silent comfort you can.

“I knew that something was wrong,” he eventually declares, voice thick with tears. “You and me, we’re not meant to just… die.”

“I’m human, Gav,” you say, as softly as you can. “That’s what we do.”

“No.”

He’s unexpectedly serious, almost scarily so, and it catches you off-guard. “No, it’s not. You’re not. Nothing gets to take you away from me again.”

What the hell does he mean by that?

He smiles sadly, looking down at the floor. “That’s why - well, I guess that’s why I did it.”

“Did what?” Everything he says just seems to give you more questions and less answers - frustrated, you push back slightly so that you can look directly at his face. “Gavin, how are we here?”

“I don’t really know how. I didn’t even know it was a thing I could do,” he says, with a weak, half-hearted laugh. “My magic must have… I don’t know. I guess it tried to reach you, and when it couldn’t find you, it - well, it…”

He gestures around vaguely at the apartment around you. “We’re not on Elegy anymore, deviant. It’s not Aria, either. I don’t really know how, but we’re outside all of that now.”

Considering everything else you’ve seen, this probably shouldn’t surprise you as much as it does. “Like another - what, like another dimension? Another plane?”

“I guess.” He shrugs apologetically, like he’s ashamed he doesn’t know. “I’ve been thinking about it like a kind of… observatory? Or like a control centre, maybe.”

“So you can see Dahlia from here?” you ask. “Why haven’t you gone back - can we go back?”

“Not - not yet,” he says, carefully measured in a way you really don’t like. “There’s something I have to fix, first.

“Hm?” Oh, this doesn’t sound good at all. “What is it?”

He doesn’t reply immediately, fangs digging into his lip like they always do when he’s nervous, tail swishing back and forth across the floor on his other side.

“Gavin?” Even if he couldn’t feel your nervousness, you’re fairly sure he doesn’t need his fancy demon senses to be able to hear your heartbeat speeding up. “Gavin, what did you do?”

“It’s fine, I think,” he mumbles, pointedly avoiding your gaze. “I just - look, I think I know how you came back to life.”

Doing your best Damien impression, you try to stare him down. It mostly works. “Explain.”

“When I said my magic tried to reach you, I think it - I think it worked,” he admits. “The lightning you mentioned - it wasn’t on purpose, but I think that was me.”

What?

“Magic is just what comes after emotion, isn’t it?” he says. “The way I felt, knowing you weren’t there…” Shaking his head, he gathers you up even closer, resting his chin on your head. “I can’t describe it. I just… needed you.”

Like this, he sounds a thousand years old. Tired to the bone. “Every part of me, all the magic I had, pouring out into the universe to find you. That was the storm.”

“But how - how are you still alive, then?” You’re sure the incredulous look on your face is stupid, but you don’t really care. Demons are made of magic - surely he’d have died, if he’d really used it all? “And how did you get here?”

“Well…” He shifts slightly underneath you, hands rearranging your body with familiar strength until you’re sitting up against his side a bit better, your head resting on his shoulder and your legs across his lap. “I have a theory, but it might be wrong.”

With one hand, you gesture for him to continue. “I’m listening.”

“My magic must have created a sort of… fault line, I guess. In the universe, or in our reality, or whatever it is - to reach you, it must have split something that was never meant to be open. It made a crack, or a splinter of some kind - a gap that I could find you through, that isn’t meant to be there. Does that make sense?”

“I think so,” you reply, hesitantly. “So you came through that gap to get here, then?”

“Sort of,” he says. “I think we’re inside that gap right now. Between life and death, outside of Aria and Elegy.”

“Outside of…” If you didn’t know any better, you’d say he’s completely lost his mind. “Woah.”

He huffs quietly, amused. “Yeah.”

“So how do we get home?” you ask. “There must be a way, right?”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to find.” Absentmindedly, he curls his tail loosely around your ankle, wrapping and unwrapping it again and again. “When I arrived here, I was… different.”

That doesn’t sound ominous at all. “...Different how?”

He sighs, low in his chest. “Humans aren’t meant to be able to come back to life. When I brought you back, I think I broke some rules I wasn’t supposed to, and now…”

“I said it was like a control centre, right? I was telling the truth.” His voice gets quieter and quieter, a soft confession that only you can hear. “Home, the place we came from - it’s like I can see everything. I can change it, however I want.”

“They don’t know I’m there, but I’m in control. It’s like - I mean, it’s like being a god.”

You…

You don’t know what to say.

“In the world we came from, you’re dead, my love,” he whispers, and it feels like an admission of guilt. “If we go back, what if - what if you-”

He swallows harshly, cutting himself off. “I can’t take that risk.”

“I know, love,” you murmur quietly, eyes closed. “I wouldn’t, either.”

For a long moment, neither of you says anything. You just hold each other, the way you always have, and it’s fine.

“So what now?” you say into the silence, as evenly as you can. “Are we just trapped here forever, then?”

“What? No - no, of course not!” he stutters, a worried expression crossing his lovely face. “There’s a way to go back home. It just… won’t be the one we’re from.”

He’s probably expecting your look of confusion, as he quickly tries to explain.

“This power I have now, I can make whatever world we want. Anywhere you want to go, anything you want us to be - I can give that to you, my deviant.”

The tap drips slowly into the sink. “Whatever you want. Forever.”

Curved small against his chest, you feel like a child asking, but you have to make sure. “Including home?”

“Especially home.” His voice is so nice and warm, that wonderful way of his that always makes you smile. “It can all go back to the way it was before.”

“And you’ll save me from the Shade.” It’s not a question.

“I’ll save you from a thousand shades, if that’s what it takes” he says, all nonchalant, like he’s not just told you he’s some kind of reality-bending dimension hopping demigod. “Whatever you ask for - it’s yours.”

“Anything?” It sounds utterly ridiculous, but… you’re kind of flattered. Not everybody has a boyfriend who’ll tear universes apart and remake the laws of physics to resurrect you like him. “Like, actually anything?”

“Anything,” he says, warm hands holding yours. It feels like a promise, or a vow. “Anything for you. I’ll make you a million universes, if that’s what you want.”

“And if I don’t want any of them?” you ask, deliberately challenging. “What then?”

“Then they won’t exist.” He sounds so calm. A statement of fact. “We could stay here forever, if that’s what you want. We don’t have to go anywhere, ever again. Nothing will exist, if you don’t want it to.”

“What about you?”

He looks down at you, puzzled. “Me?”

“Will you be there?” you ask, voice small and nervous. “In my million universes, will I have you there too?”

“Will you - oh, baby…” He laughs, and it feels like soft sunlight on your skin. “Of course, my love. Where else would I be, that isn’t by your side?”

You don’t say anything, burying your face in his neck as he gently kisses the top of your head. You know he understands.

“It’s been a long day, deviant,” he murmurs into your hair. “It can wait. We ought to go to bed.”

The thought of sleeping sends a sudden jolt of fear through you, but he already knows what you’re going to say. “It’s alright, it’s alright. I know. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

“Promise?” You cling tight to his shoulders as he stands up, curled up in his arms like a bride, the warmth of him pressed all against you. You’d almost forgotten how strong he is.

“I promise,” he says solemnly, kissing your cheek. “From now until forever.”

It’s strange, getting ready for bed. It’s also the most natural, normal thing in the world. Gavin carries you through the apartment to the bathroom, then the bedroom, and you’re content just to float happily in his lovely orbit.

Familiar pyjamas, soft and worn. Before long, you’re safe under the covers of your own bed again, the taste of toothpaste in your mouth, and you can almost imagine that this whole thing was just a dream.

“If we go home, will…” Laying on his chest, you don’t have to speak very loudly for him to hear you. “Will we remember this?”

“We might. I’ve never tried it before.”

“Then how do you know?” you say into the darkness of the room. “How do you know we’ll be together?”

You feel him laughing quietly, one hand stroking gentle circles into your back. He’s so warm.

“Because it’s true. I’ve seen it,” he says, one hand gently guiding your face up towards him. “It doesn’t matter what changes. In every universe, I always fall in love with you.”

The angle is a little awkward, but you kiss him anyway. He tastes like cherry.

“I love you.”

He smiles, eyes soft in the low light, and your journey is complete. “I love you too, my deviant.”

A dream, a promise, a handprint in the sand. Stars freeze and planets crumble in a world that has no end or beginning, while in a million universes, a million times, a million love stories happen all at once.

The River flows on.

And somewhere, in the empty space outside the universe, a demon and a human fall asleep.

main masterlist

missed part 1? read it here

series masterlist

this is an original work by @gingerbreadmonsters - please do not repost or misattribute

#redacted asmr #redacted audio #redacted gavin #redacted freelancer #redacted echo #redacted fluff #redacted angst #ginger writes #gingerbreadmonsters

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jinxquickfoot · 5 months

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@badthingshappenbingo Prompt: No-Holds-Barred Beatdown

Find the fic on Ao3

Sam would like to go on the record that he is not on board with this plan, thank you very much.

He’s always been more of a soldier than a spy, and these days he’s not sure he’s even decent at the former. He’d had to learn fast during his time chasing Bucky and the years after the Accords, taking his lead from Natasha, but the sneaking around has never come naturally to him.

“Maybe because you call spy work sneaking around,” Natasha had teased him. He misses Natasha. If she were here, she’d probably have a much better plan. Or at least the ability to convince Bucky and Zemo that this one sucks.

Sam’s also not above admitting that watching Bucky cozy up to the man who brain-washed him when he hasn’t replied to Sam’s texts for months is a gut punch. Breaking Zemo out of prison was one thing. Having private conversations when Sam is in an airplane bathroom is quite another.

He’d emerged back into the plane cabin to a hastily ended discussion between the two of them. “What?” Sam had demanded. “Swapping more music recommendations?”

“It’s nothing,” Bucky had muttered. “Don’t worry about it.”

Which of course, had made Sam very much worry about it.

Ever since it’s become public knowledge that Steve left him the shield, everyone has had an opinion about it. The US government apparently thinks it should be with some blond-haired blue-eyed golden boy. Zemo thinks it should be destroyed. Bucky thinks it should be protected. And Sam…

Sam doesn’t really know what to think at all. Which is perhaps the least Captain America perspective he could have.

“I’m not saying Steve was always right,” he’d said to Sarah after he’d been mulling over what to do with the shield for a week. “But he at least knew what he stood for. That never wavered.”

Sarah had watched him closely over their kitchen table. “Things were always a lot less complicated for Steve Rogers than they will be for us,” she reminded him. “You were gone for five years. The world’s different, Sam. There’s no harm in putting off that decision while you wait for the dust to settle.”

Sam’s not sure that’s right, but he knows better than to correct his little sister. “And what do you think I should do?”

Sarah weighs her next words carefully. “Steve did a lot of good, but every time he won as Captain America he lost someone as Steve Rogers. And I think that if I could have my brother home instead of off playing hero, I wouldn’t hate that.”

“You’re saying I shouldn’t take up the shield.”

“I’m saying,” Sarah emphasizes. “Even if you did, maybe it’s not about trying to be Steve.”

Steve wouldn’t have hesitated. He wouldn’t have waited to make a decision this important. And he certainly would have figured out how to get Bucky to talk to him without donating the one thing Steve left him to a museum. Or at least, he’d meant to donate it to a museum. Now Walker has it. The person his country apparently wants Captain America to be.

To be fair, considering that Sam is now arriving in the criminal capital of the world with the man who almost succeeded in ruining the Avengers for good, maybe the Powers That Be hadn’t made the worst call in the world. Not to mention that he’s doing so with a plan he would just like to remind everyone, again, that he is not on board with.

Not on board with breaking Zemo out of prison (Thanks for the heads-up, Buck), not on board with playing dress-up with someone named after a big cat, and certainly not on board with Bucky pretending to be the Winter Soldier.

“It’s fine, Sam,” Bucky reminds him for the hundredth time. A (very small) part of Sam doesn’t even mind, at least Bucky’s talking to him. “It will work.”

“That’s not what I’m worried about. Well, it’s not not what I’m worried about.” He jerks a finger at Zemo as he disembarks his jet. “We’re really following the orders of the same man who tried to have Steve and Tony kill each other?”

“An event that occurred well in the past,” Zemo reminds them, adjusting his coat as he approaches them. “The appearance of the Winter Soldier is guaranteed to attract Selby’s attention. Once we secure a meeting with her, she will tell us where Karli is sourcing her super-soldier serum.”

“Yeah?” Sam challenges him. “And how are you planning on getting her to tell you that?”

Zemo shrugs, unbothered. “I will be offering her something of great value. She will not be able to resist.”

“You plan on telling us what that is?”

“Sam,” Bucky cuts him off. “We need to find the serum before Karli hurts more people. This is the best way.”

“The best way, or can you just not think of a better plan?”

Bucky glowers at him. “Can you?”

And, since Sam apparently can’t, he’s forced to pull on his heels and set off to Low Town.

It’s cold where they are, his bright costume doing little to keep the chill out. He fiddles with the many layers, trying to become the man who would choose something so damn loud, the way he’d seen Natasha slip into character so easily. Well, he’s no Black Widow, and it’s not happening.

He gives up trying to fix the suit. “We have to do something about this. I’m the only one who looks like a pimp.”

Zemo huffs beside him. “Only an American would assume a fashion-forward Black man looks like a pimp.” He pulls out his phone, bringing up a photograph. “You look exactly like the man you’re supposed to be playing. The sophisticated, charming African rake named Conrad Mac, aka the Smiling Tiger.”

“He even has a bad nickname.” It comes out more sour than he’s anticipating. He knows he’s not really bothered about the impractical shoes and the too-thin suit, though. No, it’s more that he’s all too aware of Bucky walking on Zemo’s other side, staring straight ahead without a word as they walk. Sam takes the phone, peering at the image. “Hell, he does look like me, though.”

Okay, so maybe Zemo does know what he’s doing. Still doesn’t make Sam feel any better about bringing the fugitive who blew up the UN along on the Sam & Bucky Adventure Hour.

“You smell this?” Zemo nods to the multi-colored lights of the city.

Sam has been smelling it for a while now. “Yeah, what is that, acid?”

“Madripoor,” Zemo corrects him. Their hired car is driving towards them up the bridge, sleek and black with tinted windows. Must be nice to have enough money to not beg for bank loans. “No matter what happens, we have to stay in character. Our lives depend on it. There’s no margin for error.”

A fleet of armed motorcyclists flanks them into Low Town. Sam eyes them warily, weighing if he and Bucky would be enough to take them on if Zemo decides he’s not on their side after all. Sam’s not exactly used to fighting in such close quarters, but he could probably make do. Not to mention that he’s got the former Fist of HYDRA watching his six. At least, he hopes so. He’s very much regretting words about going on very long vacations and never seeing each other again right now.

“You good, man?” he asks, voice low. Bucky is still doing his staring thing, not so much watching out the window as looking blankly into the distance. Getting into character, maybe. Sam’s not sure that’s a good thing.

Bucky cuts his eyes sideways, but he doesn’t look annoyed (for once). “I can do this.”

“That’s not what I asked.” Before he can get a proper answer, however, they’re pulling into Low Town, and it’s show time.

Sam can hear the music well before they get out of the car. It’s a pumping, relentless beat that vibrates the ground as he steps into the purple and blue neon lights. The colors wash away the features on the partygoers’ faces, leaving them expressionless silhouettes. Money and drugs change hands, automatic weapons always on display without a hint of law enforcement. Sam follows Zemo’s lead, Bucky watching their back as they traverse the acid-smelling streets until they arrive at their destination.

Zemo speaks then, and Sam’s Russian has never been stellar, but he knows exactly what words are coming out of Zemo’s mouth. “Ready to comply, Winter Soldier?”

Sam wants to punch him. Bucky is free, he shouldn’t have to hear those words ever again. But when Bucky replies, his voice is void of emotion. “Ready to comply.”

The intention of the exchange becomes apparent seconds later, as the people around them begin to whisper and stare. Great. Sam remembers he’s also undercover, scrambling to fix his face. He pretending to be someone who is used to places like this, he can't be caught gawking like a tourist.

Zemo takes point, arranging their meeting with Selby through the bartender, and Sam is (for the first time) happy to let him lead. When the bartender asks if he wants his usual, he has a moment of internal panic because what the hell does a dude called the Smiling Tiger sound like before deciding a curt nod would be the safest bet.

That sentiment is immediately corrected as the bartender retrieves a snake and starts cutting it open.

“Ah, Smiling Tiger.” Zemo gestures to the snake innards as though they’ve just been offered an ice cream sundae. “Your favorite.”

Bastard, he knew. Sam is going to get him for this later. After he gets him for mind-controlling Bucky, manipulating one of Steve’s closest friends into attacking him, and killing eleven people by bombing the United Nations.

Zemo clinks classes with him. “Cheers, comrade.”

Steve would have never done this.

That thought is slimier than whatever the hell ends up in his shot glass. He gets it down—No matter what happens, we have to stay in character. Our lives depend on it—and tries to suppress the urge to puke all over the bar top. He manages a strangled sound instead he hopes he turns into a sound of satisfaction and then, for reasons only God understands, his body decides to throw the bartender a thumbs up.

However, none of that makes him as sick as watching Zemo order the Winter Soldier to attack like a dog, or by the blank look on Bucky’s face as he complies.

Zemo leans back against the bar, looking completely unbothered as Bucky slams a guy into the floor. “Didn’t take much for him to fall back into form.”

Sam’s going to murder him. That is, if the multitude of people cocking guns in this bar doesn’t shoot them all first.

He grabs Bucky’s arm—to pull him off the guy he’s going pinned against the bar, to grab him and run for an exit, to just offer some goddamn comfort to wipe that awful, expressionless mask off his face, he’s not sure—but Zemo leans over to whisper in his ear. “Stay in character, or the whole bar turns on us.”

It’s at that moment he’s sure this was a mistake, and it’s a moment that’s far, far too late. No turning back now, not unless he wants to take half a dozen bullets home with him. And as much as he wants to pull Bucky out of the nightmare of having Zemo control him again, even if it is only pretend (he hopes), he doesn’t want to leave Sarah without a brother for the second time either.

Zemo says something else in Russian, enough for Bucky to release the throat of the guy he’s holding, and the room seems to breathe as one. The bartender nods at them, as though they’ve just answered a question correctly. “Selby will see you now.”

With the attention off of them, Sam takes the opportunity to drop his voice low and ask, “You good?”

Something Sam can’t interpret flashes across Bucky’s face, before the mask is put carefully back into place. He doesn’t answer him, either. Sam really hopes that’s just because Bucky’s much better at keeping his cover. Either way, they’re having a long talk after this, one he’s not going to let Bucky run away from.

They’re led into the backrooms, Sam bringing up the rear this time as Bucky keeps a close watch on Zemo’s back. They pass stacks of cash and guns prepped for shipping, and Sam gets the ridiculous urge to grab the 260-pound super-soldier he’s tailing and throw him behind him. Or maybe just grab his fancy Wakandan arm and run after all.

He does neither. He trails obediently behind, following this plan he didn’t make and didn’t agree to, that places a friend (yes they’re friends, Bucky, admit it) in a position Sam had promised their mutual friend he would never be in again.

The voice reaches him before Sam can see who it belongs to. “You should know, Baron. People don’t just come into my bar and make demands.”

“Not a demand. An offer.” Zemo sits, as comfortable here as he was in his own private jet sipping champagne. Bucky lines himself up behind him, ever the faithful bodyguard, which leaves Sam to enter last. He takes in the armed man twice his size guarding the door, before his gaze falls on the woman who had spoken.

She looks to be somewhere in her sixties, hair chopped short and styled, her clothing clearly more expensive than her employees’. “A lot has changed since you were here last.” Selby takes them all in, eyes lingering for a moment too long on Bucky before she returns her attention to Zemo. “By the way, I thought you were rotting away in a German prison. How did you escape?”

The question is loaded, but Zemo steps elegantly out of the blast range. “People like us always find a way, don’t we? I’m sure you’ve already figured out what I’m here for.”

People like us. An arms dealer and a terrorist. The kind of people Sam works with now, apparently.

Selby raises a finger, still looking at Zemo, so Sam jumps a little when the next question is directed at him. “You’re taller than I’d heard, Smiling Tiger.”

She flicks her head towards him, and Sam decides a stoic nod is probably better than trying to speak right now. She stares him down, and for a moment Sam is sure he’s messed this up—surely Zemo would have told him if the Smiling Tiger was chatty?—before Selby smirks and makes a purring noise at him. Ew.

She snorts, turning back to Zemo with a broad smile like she’s just told a joke. “What’s the offer?”

“Tell us what you know about the super-soldier serum.” Zemo stands, and Sam’s heart rate picks up as he crosses the room to Bucky. “And I give you him.”

It takes everything in Sam not to react. Or at least, react strongly. He’s sure the expression his face just made has given them away—soldier, not a spy—because this was not the plan he was informed about. If he didn’t agree to any of this to begin with, he doubly didn’t agree to using Bucky as a bartering chip.

Zemo’s hands are on Bucky’s shoulders, tracing a line across his spine, and Sam has to remind himself that launching across the room to break his fingers would probably get all of them shot.

“Along with the code words to control him, of course,” Zemo adds. “He will do anything you want.”

Those fingers Sam so desperately wants to break climb higher, grabbing Bucky by the chin. Sam can’t decide what horrifies him more—the delighted, almost hungry look on Selby’s face, or the resigned one on Bucky’s. No surprise. No reaction.

He’d known this was coming.

Sam’s memory jumps back to exiting the plane bathroom, sure he’d just witnessed the shutting down of a conversation he wasn’t privy to. They’d gone behind his back. Bucky Barnes, Steve’s best friend, had decided to make a pact with the man who’d used him as a chess piece to topple the Avengers over the one who had searched for him for two years.

He clamps down on the rising anger, he cannot break character, not here. He’ll give Bucky a piece or ten of his mind later. It horribly occurs to him then that he does not know when later is. Surely to make this bluff work, Bucky has to stay behind? And then, what, break out of Low Town by himself?

Yeah, Sam is going to murder him right after Zemo, the idiot.

Selby leans forward on the couch, significantly more on board with the situation than when they’d walked in. “Now that’s the Zemo I remember. I’m glad I decided not to kill you immediately. But I’m sure you’ll understand that I’ll need to test your generous offer.”

Zemo does that stupid head tilt thing, feigning confusion. “Please, elaborate.”

Selby sticks her finger in Bucky’s direction. “All sorts of rumors about that one. That he’s been rehabilitated.” She spits out the word like it’s garbage. “The States pardoned him and everything.”

“American propaganda,” Zemo answers smoothly. “You know how attached they are to their war heroes. They could not have Captain America’s closest ally being branded a serial killer.”

Selby isn’t convinced. “If you want the location of the super-soldier serum, I’m going to need some proof you’re not selling me a faulty product.”

Zemo acknowledges her words with a nod. “Fair enough.” He switches to Russian. “Soldat na koleni.”

Thank god no one is paying attention to Sam anymore because he full-on flinches when Bucky’s knees hit the floor. He doesn’t use his hands to reduce the impact either, that must have hurt, but Bucky doesn’t even blink. With a sick feeling in his stomach that has nothing to do with the snake guts residing there, it hits Sam that Bucky is far too well-practiced in this. Don’t show pain, don’t show humiliation, don’t show anger. Just complete the mission.

“Cute,” Selby remarks. “But party tricks aren’t worth much when you're the one holding his leash.”

Zemo tuts her. “Ah, now you know I cannot hand over the code words without something in exchange.”

Selby sits on that for a few moments, gaze focusing on Bucky. There's hunger written all over her face, and what Sam wouldn’t give for the ability to Doctor Strange them a portal out of there. “The super-soldier serum is here in Madripoor,” she says finally. “Dr Wilfred Nagel is the man you want to thank. Or condemn, depending on what side of this you’re on. The Power Broker had him working on the serum but things didn’t go as planned.”

“Is Nagel still in Madripoor?” Zemo presses.

“Oh, the breadcrumbs you can have for free, but the bakery is going to cost you, Baron. And before you get all cute don’t think you can find Nagel without me.” She cocks her head (way too much head tilting going on tonight for Sam’s tastes) and considers Bucky. “Tell him to come over here.”

Zemo barks another order, and Sam waits for Bucky to stand. He doesn’t. Without even being prompted, he fucking crawls over to Selby’s feet.

Steve is going to clamber out of the 1940s just to slug Sam in the face. Sam had promised that yes, Steve could go live the life he never got to, Sam would keep an eye on Bucky and make sure he was safe. So how the hell did Sam let them get here?

Selby takes her turn grabbing Bucky by the chin, way tighter and rougher than Zemo had done. He lets her wrench his head up, eyes focused somewhere around her knees, and Sam has the awful thought that the Soldier probably wasn’t allowed to make eye contact with his handlers.

“The Fist of HYDRA,” Selby muses. Her other hand runs through Bucky’s hair, tugging on it. He doesn’t wince. “I liked the long hair better.”

“It was impractical for battle,” Zemo answers. If any part of him is bothered by this, he isn’t showing it. Sam wonders just how far Bucky had agreed they could go while Sam was out of earshot in that damn bathroom. If he’d even set a limit. Again—idiot.

Idiot or… just someone who doesn’t believe they deserve better.

Selby stands abruptly, and Bucky’s abused chin drops back to his chest. “Russia’s bogeyman,” she continues as she makes her way over to one of the back shelves, retrieving a long, flat box there. It clinks and clatters as she tugs it towards her. “Known to complete any mission, under any conditions.” She flips the lid open, considering the contents. “If I’m going to trade Nagel’s location, I’m not doing it for a broken toy.”

And she brings out a pair of brass knuckles.

Oh, hell no. They’re not doing this. Sam isn’t watching this. He starts forward, only for Zemo to cut him a sharp look. It lasts a fraction of a second, too quick for Selby or her men to notice, but it’s enough to freeze Sam in his tracks. Right. Stay in character or they all die. Both of them are so getting an earful about letting their Captain in on their little plans after this.

But you’re not their Captain, are you? a nasty voice whispers in his head. You turned that title down. Maybe that’s for the best.

Yeah, Sam doesn’t really think letting your friend get beaten right in front of you in an arms dealer’s lair is Captain America-approved behavior.

Selby slips the brass knuckles over her fingers with practiced grace, looking far too excited for Sam’s comfort level. He tries to swallow the rising nausea. Bucky can take a few hits. He shouldn’t have to, but he can. Then they’ll get Nagel’s location. They’ll find out where the Flagsmashers are sourcing the serum. They’ll (hopefully) save a lot of lives.

It’s that last thought he clings to as Selby smashes her fist into Bucky’s jaw.

Sam is going to be thinking of that crack of metal on bone until he’s in his grave. For his part, Bucky barely blinks. He absorbs the blow without even a sound, before returning his head to his original deferent position. Then Selby swings at his other cheek.

To save lives, Sam thinks desperately. Bucky signed up for this because he knew it would save lives. If Sam interferes now, all of this was for nothing, and they’re probably all going to get shot.

For a petite older woman, Selby must be hitting the gym between weapons deals, because she continues to pummel Bucky’s body without mercy. Arms, lower back, ribs. And every time, Bucky takes it, expressionless, and then places himself right back in her line of fire.

Sam never thought he’d be relieved to hear Zemo talk, but it’s music to his ears when he finally steps in. “As you can see,” he says. “His programming is perfectly maintained. I am not so foolish to try and trick one of the most influential names in Madripoor.”

Selby grins, clearly enjoying herself. “Flattery will get you everywhere, Baron. But I’m not quite satisfied yet.” And she returns to her little box of tricks.

Sam uses her momentary distraction to lock eyes with Zemo. Enough, he tries to communicate.

Stay. In. Character, Zemo radiates back and, great, Sam and Zemo are on can communicate with just a look terms now.

Sam takes a deep breath, trying to maintain his I am a stoic criminal persona. A little bit more. Bucky volunteered for this. Sam didn’t, but there’s not much he can do about that now. He can play the long game, endure some pain in service of the greater good. It’s what Doctor Strange pulled on Titan, and it inevitably saved half of the universe.

And lost Sarah her brother for five years.

That greater good mindset is immediately tested when Selby raises a baseball bat wrapped in barbed wire out of that box.

For the first time, Bucky reacts. It’s so subtle that Sam’s sure everyone else misses the tiny flinch. Everyone else except Zemo, that is, who is still staring at Sam, commanding him not to mess this up. Well, Sam’s never particularly enjoyed taking orders.

Selby takes her sweet time making her way back to where Bucky’s kneeling, the colored lights glinting off the razor-sharp barbs. Sam forces himself to still, reminding himself of all the logic that’s been keeping him rooted in this spot. If he breaks character, they don’t get information on the serum. If he breaks character, Karli continues to make super-soldiers. If he breaks character, all three of them are going to get shot at.

Selby raises the bat, preparing to take her first swing, and it happens.

This time, even Zemo seems to miss it. It’s so quick, Sam would have been sure he was seeing things if he wasn’t watching Bucky’s every tiny move. Bucky’s eyes dart to the side, looking right up at Sam, and Sam sees it. Not resolve. Not a warning for Sam to stay out of the way. A plea.

Help.

He’s moving before he’s even registered how dangerous this is. All he knows is that he can’t be a spectator anymore.

He goes for the man on his right first, lunging for the automatic rifle. He has surprise on his side, the man yelling out in shock as Sam wrestles him for his weapon. The room explodes around him, yelling and gunfire, as Bucky launches upright, smashing his fist into the bottom of Selby’s jaw. Good.

What’s not so good is the armed man on the other side of the room turning his gun on Sam.

There’s no time to get out of the way. Sam’s body freezes, tensing for the hit. Bucky’s seen it too. He lunges towards the gunman, but Sam can already tell he’s not going to make it in time. Hopefully, he’ll get out of here alive. Maybe even tell Sarah that Sam died being a hero and not an idiot.

A shot rings out and he flinches, but the pain doesn’t come. The gunman’s chest bursts in a spray of red, collapsing to the ground, and then there are hands tugging him to the exit. “Come, Sam. We cannot linger.”

Sam wrenches himself out of Zemo’s grasp. “Bucky! Let’s move!”

More shots are fired by the mysterious sniper, giving them an opening to run to the exit. Bucky’s managed to acquire a gun of his own, covering them as they run for the door. He looks like hell, blood and bruises covering his face. No doubt there are more injuries too, buried below the surface.

Bucky notices him looking. “I’m fine, Sam.”

Sam can’t quite read his tone—if he’s exasperated or straight-up furious with Sam for ruining the plan—but he has bigger fish to fry. “That other shooter.” He turns on Zemo. “Another plan you didn’t let me in on?”

“Not mine.” He sounds distinctly put out by the thought as he pulls out his phone. “But we have a real problem now, so leave any weapons and follow my lead.”

After what he just tried to pull with Selby and Bucky, Sam wants to do anything but, but Bucky almost immediately lowers his pilfered gun to the floor. “Zemo knows Madripoor,” he reminds Sam. The words reveal his bloody teeth. “If we’re getting out of this, it’s his way.”

Getting out of this turns out to be getting shot at as they sprint through the rain-slicked, neon-lit streets, and Sam’s footwear is not designed for dodging bullets. Bucky’s not doing much better, his myriad of injuries slowing him down even with the serum.

“Come here.” Sam dives sideways, throwing his arm under Bucky’s and half-hauling him onto his shoulder.

“I’m fine—”

“If you tell me you’re fine one more time I’m telling Dr Raynor on you. You’re slow, this’ll help, let’s move.”

They stumble into a side alley, the roar of motorbikes hot on their heels. Two behind them, one approaching. They’re being hemmed in.

Another figure approaches—Zemo, gun out, ready to take out one of their enemies. But before he can fire, a crack of a bullet erupts from one of the upper-floor windows. Another two cracks, and the pursuers behind them also fall.

Zemo approaches them, gun lowered, looking as confused as Sam feels. “Seems you have a guardian angel.”

“Well, this is too perfect.”

They all spin towards the new voice. A figure in a hood with her gun raised stalks towards them, slightly out of breath but determined as she points her weapon at them.

“Drop it, Zemo,” Sharon Carter says. “You cost me everything.”

An hour later, he’s showered and perched on a couch that feels like it costs more than his and Sarah’s house. The Smiling Tiger clothes are gone, and he’s swaddled instead in a soft turtleneck pilfered from Sharon’s closet. Bucky’s vanished elsewhere in the apartment, and the only reason Sam hasn’t chased him down yet is because he saw him scoop up Sharon’s offered first-aid kit before he ditched them.

Sam takes in the fancy apartment, the stolen art, the brisk and icy way Sharon carries herself. Not exactly what he pictured from the woman who once helped Captain America on a noble quest. “What’s going on, Sharon? You don’t ever want to come back home?”

Sharon offers him a drink. Sam knows he shouldn’t, but he takes it anyway. Anything to soften the images of Bucky passively kneeling at Selby’s feet. “They’ll lock me up if I ever step foot back in the States,” she explains, her tone resigned. “Madripoor doesn’t allow extradition.”

Sam exhales, a fresh wave of guilt rising to the surface. First, he lets Bucky get the shit beaten out of him, and now he’s being confronted with a reminder of another one of Steve’s friends he let down. “Look, I’m sorry I didn’t call, but after the Blip and the chaos I just—”

Sharon cuts him off. “You know the whole hero thing is a joke, right?”

He freezes with his hands clutched around his drink, the chill from the ice cubes seeping into his fingers.

She makes one herself, double the size of his. “I mean, the way you gave up that shield, deep down you must know it’s all hypocrisy.”

“He knows. And not so deep down.” Both of them turn to see that Zemo has appeared in the doorway, looking entirely unruffled by that night’s escapades.

Sam turns on him. “You planned to trade Bucky to Selby and, what, didn’t think to give me a head’s up?”

Zemo shrugs, unbothered. “You would not have agreed and we would have wasted time arguing. James was more than willing to acquiesce and it would have worked had you not interfered.” He fixes Sam with a long look. It’s not angry. If anything, it’s curious. “Tell me, what did you hope to gain from stepping in? We do not have Nagel’s location. Your friend suffered pain for no reason. A strong leader cannot end up in such middle ground and hope to live a long life.”

A sharp laugh makes them both look at Sharon. “The entire world’s a middle ground,” she argues. “You know that more than anything, Zemo.” She cocks her head to Sam. “Looks like our new Cap is still learning, though.”

“I’m not Cap,” Sam mutters. “I gave up the shield, remember?” And after tonight, he’s seriously questioning Steve’s judgment in giving it to him in the first place. “And tonight wasn’t a waste, we got a name. Wilfred Nagel.”

Sharon’s cold smile slips away. “Nagel works for the Power Broker.” She says that as though it’s the end of an argument.

Sam disagrees. “We need your help, Sharon. I can get your name cleared. I’m sorry I didn’t try earlier, really, I should have—”

“You haggling with my life?”

“Not like that.”

“I don’t buy it. You pretending you can clear my name. What, because I made out with your bestie once upon a time, you think it's your job to rescue me?”

“Steve has nothing to do with it. I want us to help each other because I consider you a friend.”

Sharon stands, pouring herself another drink, and Sam is all too aware of Zemo listening to their every word. No doubt looking for more holes in Sam’s armor to use against him later. “Funny,” Sharon comments. “How I’m only your friend when you need something from me, and not when I’m being exiled by my own country for helping save your ass.”

“That’s… not an unfair comment,” Sam admits. He stands, setting his own drink down. “Okay, maybe it is hypocrisy. But I’m willing to try if you are.”

“I don’t trust charity.”

“It’s not—” Sam cuts off, frustrated. What is it with the people from Steve’s life not being willing to accept his help?

“She wants a deal,” Zemo offers from behind them. “Not pretty words, Cap.”

Sam jabs a finger in his direction. “You don’t get to call me that. And stay out of this, you’ve done enough damage for one night.”

“I’ve done damage?” Zemo lounges against the couch, totally at home amongst the opulence. “Need I remind you why we need to strike a deal to find Nagel in the first place.”

“We are not doing anything,” Sam snaps at him. He turns back to Sharon. “I don’t make deals with friends. We help each other out.”

Sharon snorts. “Well, thanks for all your help the past year, Sam.” She takes a long sip. “How’s this? I’ll throw out a few hooks, see what tips I catch on Nagel’s location. You take him in, you weaken the Power Broker, and that strengthens my position. How does that sound?”

“Cold,” Sam replies.

“It’s a cold world.” Sharon finishes her drink. “I have a meeting with clients in an hour. You’re welcome to crash here to let Bucky recover.” Her eyes slide over to Zemo. “Although that one is being locked in his room.”

Zemo shrugs, nonplussed. “Fair enough.”

All Sam wants is to collapse into one of Sharon’s super-soft beds and sleep, praying that he doesn’t dream of brass knuckles and friends he’s let down. But he still has work to do, and rest can wait. He makes his way to Bucky’s room.

He doesn’t get a reply when he knocks on the door. “Buck,” he calls out. “It’s me. Can I come in?” No response. “I’m going to take silence as a yes. Three… two…” Nothing. As quietly as he can in case by some miracle Bucky’s asleep, Sam eases the door open.

He’s not asleep. He’s perched on the edge of the bed, shirt long since discarded, and Sam winces as he sees the bruises blossoming on his pale skin. “They’ll heal,” Bucky says before Sam can comment. “Barely be there by tomorrow.”

“Doesn’t mean they don’t hurt now.” Sam pads his way over to the bed, gently shutting the door behind him. For the first time in a while, they’re alone. No Zemo, no Sharon, no Dr Raynor. Just the two of them. “Did you at least use the icepacks?”

Bucky doesn’t reply, which is an answer in itself.

“Come on, man.” Sam reaches for the first aid kit, only for Bucky to shake his head. “It’ll help. You’re allowed to get help, Buck.”

Bucky is quiet for a long moment before he murmurs, “Don’t like ice.”

Oh, shit. Sam replaces the ice packs. “Right. Makes sense.” He rakes his eyes over Bucky’s various injuries again, and takes the plunge. “I’m sorry.”

Bucky shrugs it off. “You’re just trying to help. Even when it’s annoying.”

“Not sorry about the ice.” Bucky’s jaw is a mess of black and purple. “About what happened with Selby. That… that shouldn’t have happened.”

Bucky looks as though he’s tasted something sour. “We could have gotten the serum location.”

“I don’t care.”

“I care.” Bucky twists his fingers together, turning the knuckles white. “Could have done some good, for once.”

Sam frowns at that. “What do you think we crossed the pond into Asia for? We’re here to stop Karli.”

Bucky shrugs that off. “Just one more on the list.”

“List?” Sam looks around the room, and spots Steve’s notebook on the bedside table. “The names.”

Bucky shrugs again.

Pieces are starting to come together. “Buck, come on, you know all that talk about making reparations is just government bullshit. You have nothing to make up for. You didn’t have a choice.” Unlike Sam. He had a choice to step in earlier, with Bucky tonight, with Sharon a year ago. He hadn’t. “You know it’s bullshit, right?”

The next words are almost a whisper. “I don’t know, Sam.”

Sam forces himself to take a couple of breaths so he doesn’t take his frustration on Sharon’s luxury bedding. “This is why you should have texted me back.”

“Sorry.”

“No, you’re not.”

The ghost of a smile appears on Bucky’s face. It would put Sam at ease if it didn’t stretch and contort the bruising there. “Makes me miss the forties. Easier to avoid people.”

“Hey.” Sam turns serious again. “You going to tell me why you sided with Zemo over me?”

Bucky shifts, uncomfortable. “That’s not what happened.”

“No? Dreaming up schemes with your new bestie and not letting me in isn’t what happened?”

“You wouldn’t have gone along with it.”

“Damn right I wouldn’t. So instead you dropped me into a plan I had no idea was happening when we were already in the lion’s den.”

Bucky considers that. “Okay, maybe keeping you in the dark wasn’t a good idea.”

“Maybe?”

“But we needed Nagel’s location. It would have worked, Sam.”

“And how would it have worked? We leave you behind with Selby? So she could do even worse to you? No, no way.”

“Sam—”

“I should have stepped in before she hit you even once, Buck. That’s on me.” He feels the fresh sting of Sharon’s words. You know the whole hero thing is a joke, right? “Alright, maybe it blew our cover. I don’t care. I couldn’t watch anymore.”

The words seem to slam into Bucky like a train. He blinks rapidly, as though trying to translate them into English. “Sam…” The word is a croak.

“I mean it. We’re never doing that again. I’m not watching something like that again.”

Sam’s not sure what he’s expecting. A brush-off, probably. For Bucky to dig his heels in, growl out one of his classic I’m fines, to be hurried out of the room so Bucky can mope in peace. The last thing he expects is for Bucky’s eyes to go shiny.

He goes very still, as though trying not to startle a stray cat. He can almost hold the window of opportunity for them to actually talk in his hands, so delicate that one wrong word is going to shatter it. So he doesn’t risk saying anything. Some of his most productive meetings at the VA have been when he hasn’t said a word, and just gave the vets space to speak.

“When I was with HYDRA…” Bucky swallows, darting a nervous look at Sam as though he’s worried he’s going to bolt from the room. No way. Sam’s going to put down roots in this very nice carpet until Bucky’s finished talking. “They, um… they did a lot of bad stuff to me. Really, really bad.”

Sam’s all too aware. He’s seen the files. Even then, he’s sure the worst of it was never recorded.

“And there was always someone…” Bucky swallows again, gripping the bedsheets in an iron fist. So much for protecting Sharon’s bedding. “There was always someone in charge. A scientist or a handler, it didn’t matter. There was always someone to deal out pain.”

Sam forces himself to take a deep breath. And Bucky has spent the past few months being told he has to make reparations for this.

“But that was okay,” Bucky continues. He’s picked a spot somewhere near Sam’s socked foot to stare at. “Well, not okay, but there was a part of me that could understand it. Especially early on, before I was all…” He waves a vague hand around his head. “Before they figured out the Chair, and I was still me. Whoever was working on me that day, it was easy to label them as evil.”

They were, Sam thinks, but he doesn’t dare break his silence. He knows Bucky doesn’t talk to his therapist, not really. He’s not sure how much he told Steve. But this story feels fresh, raw, as though it’s the first time Bucky’s said it out loud.

“They weren’t even what broke me, in the end.” Bucky’s voice is hoarse. “Because it was easy to label them as bullies. Steve’s word.” A beat of grief crosses his face. “They couldn’t get to me, because it was just pain. I could take pain.”

Sam takes in Bucky’s injuries anew. Just because he can take pain, doesn’t mean he should. Still, Sam decides to save that lesson for another day.

“No, what actually got to me was…” Bucky chokes up on the words, and still Sam doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. “There were always other people. Not the people doing the torture or the surgery. Other people just… just watching.”

Sam’s almost afraid to breathe now in case he causes Bucky to shut back down again. The man’s gone back to clutching the sheets, a haunted look on his face that’s definitely going to enter Sam’s nightmares along with those brass knuckles.

“They didn’t care.” The words are so low they’re almost inaudible. “They’d just be observing, making notes or comments, while I was screaming two feet from them. Or, sometimes, they wouldn’t be paying attention at all, and that was even worse. I’d be bleeding on their shoes and they’d be talking about the weather.”

A chill penetrates Sam’s core. Turns out he’d been right about the worst parts of Bucky’s imprisonment not being in the files.

“So, with Selby…” Bucky bites his lip, finally managing to look in Sam’s direction, even if he’s not able to meet his eye. “Thank you. For not just watching. Even if it did really screw up a perfectly good plan that would have—”

Sam’s composure finally breaks. Careful not to jostle any still-mending bones, he slides across the bed to throw his arms around Bucky’s shoulders. Bucky goes rigid, and for one terrifying moment Sam’s sure he’s messed this up after all, before all the air seems to drain out of Bucky at once and he slumps against Sam’s chest.

“I’m sorry I watched for as long as I did,” Sam murmurs in his ear. He recalls the look Bucky had thrown him as Selby had brought out the bat. Help. How many times had he looked at his captors that way, praying for someone to step in, for just one person to say stop, this isn’t right, to end it? “She shouldn’t have hurt you. It wasn’t right.”

His response is the tiniest hitch in Bucky’s breath.

“It wasn’t right,” Sam repeats, willing those words to soak into Bucky’s skin. “I should have stepped in sooner. Steve wouldn’t have even let her throw the first punch.”

Bucky leans away from him then. “No, he wouldn’t have,” he agrees after a beat, and Sam feels his heart sink. I mean, the way you gave up that shield, deep down you must know it’s all hypocrisy. Sam doesn’t know, deep down or not. He just knows that if he’s trying to be Steve’s replacement, he’s failing miserably.

Then Bucky continues. “I don’t think that’s a bad thing, though.” He seems to gather himself. “The moment there was trouble, Steve would be there throwing punches. And that includes before the serum. Punk.” Bucky scrapes a hand across his furrowed brow. “The whole incident with Stark and the Accords happened because he jumped in without considering other options. We had a chance for the plan to work, with Selby.”

“We still ended up getting shot at."

“We got a name,” Bucky reminds him. He stares straight ahead, apparently searching for the right words. “I’m just saying… maybe it’s not a terrible thing. That you’re willing to look at all the options. Steve’s sense of justice was one of his greatest strengths, but that doesn’t mean it didn’t bite him the ass too.”

“Maybe,” Sam allows. “Seems everyone has an opinion on who Captain America should be except me. I know you’re mad at me for giving up the shield, but I just… it’s complicated. Trying to follow in Steve’s footsteps.”

Bucky picks at his pants leg. “I don’t think he meant you to,” he says finally. “He gave you the shield because you’re you. Not because he thought you were going to be just like him.”

Sam sits with that. “Me taking up the shield would still be insanely complicated.”

“I know,” Bucky says softly. “And we should have thought of why. Steve always had a habit of seeing the world as how he thought it should be, not how it actually was.” He glances at Sam. “Maybe someone who’s more of a realist is an advantage.”

“Careful, Buck, you’re getting awfully close to a compliment there.”

Bucky lets out a low laugh, before his brow furrows again. “It’s your choice whether you want to take up the mantle or not,” he says finally. “And I know everyone is telling you what you should and shouldn’t do.”

“You about to be one of them?”

Bucky shrugs. “All I know is, after nearly a century of this,” he gestures at his body, “exactly two people have stepped in instead of just watching. Steve. You.”

Something swells in Sam’s chest. Not pride, and not confidence, but he feels a little more like he’s on stable ground than before. “I’m not promising I’m going to take up the shield.”

Bucky draws in a shuddering breath. “I know. I’m just saying… I don’t think Steve was wrong about you.”

Sam reaches out to gently take his wrist. “Maybe. He wasn’t wrong about you either. But also…” Words are rising to the surface that taste a little of rebellion, but something in Sam tells him they’re right. “Who cares what Steve thinks? He’s not here anymore.”

Bucky starts, as though he’s never considered that idea before. Sam’s right there with him—this is new to him too. It lifts a little of the weight that’s been hanging around his neck since he’d first told Steve the shield felt like it belonged to someone else. Steve had an idea of who the next Captain America would be. And so apparently did the US government, Sarah, Karli, Walker, Zemo, Sharon, everyone. Sam could take on their perspectives, he could listen to what they had to say, but at the end of the day, he could choose what kind of hero he decided to be. Not a joke, not a hypocrite, and certainly not a bystander when someone he cared about was getting hurt.

“We’re a mess,” Sam says out loud, and Bucky lets out a surprised laugh. Sam squeezes his wrist, standing. “Sharon’s hunting down Nagel’s location. When she gets it, let’s make a plan to get him together, okay? I can’t be your partner if you keep things from me.”

“Who says we’re partners?” Bucky flops back on the bed, looking like he’s laid down a little of the weight he’s hauling around too.

“No one,” Sam fires back. “That’s an impossible idea.”

“I agree.”

“Ah, so you can agree with me.” Sam stands, hovering in the doorway. “Can I get you anything?”

Bucky shakes his head. “Just need to sleep it off.”

“Alright. See you soon, Buck.”

Sam steps out of the bedroom. He still doesn’t feel like Captain America. But maybe he feels slightly more in control of things than he did a few hours ago. And if Bucky’s finally opening up to him, and he can get Sharon’s name cleared, and stop Karli from hurting anyone else…

It’s a long road ahead of him. But at least he knows he doesn’t have to walk it alone.

#bad things happen bingo #bthb card #the falcon and the winter soldier #tfatws #sam wilson #bucky barnes #helmut zemo #selby #sharon carter #whump #whump writing #bucky barnes whump #sam & bucky #marvel #mcu #no holds barred beatdown

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cleolinda · 1 year

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Varney the Vampire: Chapter 9

Chapter 8: "Vampire hunting is harrrrrrd. I want to go hoooooome."

Chapter 9: Originally posted on Livejournal on February 20, 2011 in the same post as chapter 8. Revised a little for polish.

CHAPTER IX.

THE OCCURRENCES OF THE NIGHT AT THE HALL. -- THE SECOND APPEARANCE OF THE VAMPYRE, AND THE PISTOL-SHOT.

When we last left the Fearful Vampyre Hunters, Mr. Dr. Chillingworth was refusing to believe that the paranormal is even a thing; the Bannerworth brothers were limp with horror that their ancestor's missing remains were out vampyring somewhere, maybe; and Family Friend Marchdale and the aforementioned Chillingworth were trying to get them to fucking deal. So now we're going to cut back over to the Bannerworth house and check in on sister Flora Bannerworth, who has been left with their mother and ye olde pistols.

James Malcolm Rymer does something really interesting in this chapter, and I can't tell if it's on purpose or not: he essentially subverts the usual Brave Hero/Distressed Damsel setup by having Henry immediately abandon all will to live ("Nothing matters now. I care not what becomes of me"), and Flora, the actual victim, be the only Bannerworth with any moxie. So Flora's stuck at home with her terrified mother, waiting for the menfolks to stop meebling about how useless they are and come home from that church crypt, and she is beginning to think that maybe she can't handle this by herself.

Despite the full and free consent which Flora had given to her brothers to entrust her solely to the care of her mother and her own courage at the hall, she felt greater fear creep over her after they were gone than she chose to acknowledge.

(An interesting effort here to underline that Flora is left to protect herself by choice.)

But only maybe:

"But it is but for two hours," thought Flora, "and two hours will soon pass away."

Specifically, she reminds herself that the Crypt Squad will be gone from 9 to 11 pm (which is relatively early at night and probably not prime bite time for the vampyre, who arrived last time after midnight). Flora also has no idea what they're up to out in the ancestral church vaults:

It was not even guessed at, however remotely, so that she had not the additional affliction of thinking, that while she was sitting there, a prey to all sorts of imaginative terrors, they were perhaps gathering fresh evidence, as, indeed, they were, of the dreadful reality of the appearance which, but for the collateral circumstances attendant upon its coming and its going, she would fain have persuaded herself was but the vision of a dream.

Honestly, sometimes I like to quote from the text purely to remind you what we're dealing with here.

Meanwhile, as you will recall, Henry's shuffling around in the ancestral vault, moaning "listlessly" about how doing things is harrrrrrd. Flora and her mother wait bravely for the men in the shuttered breakfast room; an hour passes pretty quickly and Flora feels good about this and Mrs. Bannerworth's like, "Oh, Flora! You look much better than you did when the vampyre first made you his hideous repast!" (Henry, back at the crypt: "Being related to a vampire is the woooooorst thinnnnng that has ever happened to anyoooooone.") "Oh! Mother, do you hear that?" "What?" "Just... you know... something at the shutter I've been hearing for the last ten minutes. It's cool, I'm probably imagining it. I mean, I'm the one who got chewed on, I'm certainly not going to get scared." ("It's darrrrrk and I'm saaaaaaad.")

Flora herself trembled, and was of a death-like paleness; once or twice she passed her hand across her brow, and altogether she presented a picture of much mental suffering.

And yet she does not whine about it. Mrs. Bannerworth suggests ringing for some servants to wait it out with them, and Flora's like, "No, no, it's cool! What is that scratching at the window? No, no, I'm fine!" Hm. Maybe Flora needs to admit that she can't—shouldn’t have to—do this all by herself. Or maybe we can just have her waffle back and forth for three hundred words ("No, no! We don't need the servants to sit with us, everything's going to be OH GOD WHAT IS AT THE WINDOW?!?"), that's cool, because finally,

A faint cry came from Flora's lips, as she exclaimed, in a voice of great agony, --"Oh, God! -- oh, God! It has come again!" [207 words] Mrs. Bannerworth covered her face with her hands, and, after rocking to and fro for a moment, she fell off her chair, having fainted with the excess of terror that came over her. [240 words] [The entirety of which I spent laughing at the image of Mrs. Bannerworth falling off her chair like a stunned parrot] One glance, one terrified glance, in which [Flora's] whole soul was concentrated, sufficed to shew her who and what the figure was. There was a tall, gaunt form -- there was the faded ancient apparel -- the lustrous metallic-looking eyes -- its half-opened mouth, exhibiting tusk-like teeth! It was -- yes, it was -- the vampyre! [Tusks? Seriously? Maybe Varney just wants his bucket.] It stood for a moment gazing at her, and then in the hideous way it had attempted before to speak, it apparently endeavoured to utter some words which it could not make articulate to human ears. The pistols lay before Flora. Mechanically she raised one, and pointed it at the figure. It advanced a step, and then she pulled the trigger.

QUEEN SHIT

A stunning report followed. There was a loud cry of pain, and the vampyre fled.

YEAH HE DID

It was no effort of any reflection, but a purely mechanical movement, that made her raise the other pistol, and discharge that likewise in the direction the vampyre had taken.

Granted: Flora then flings the gun away and flees the room; she runs smack into Unidentified Guy Who Might Be the Vampyre (But Probably Isn't, Since the Vampyre Is Out Crashing Around in the Foliage) and faints right into his not-vampyre arms. But for one shining moment, someone did something.

(We have now run out of Livejournal-era recaps! At one point, I had read about halfway through the entire behemoth, but that was about 12 years ago now and I can't even remember what I had for breakfast, so this will mostly be new to me as well. Until I figure out about how long it takes me to recap a chapter from scratch, we're going to say that chapter 10 will go up on Friday, April 14. Could be sooner! Won't be later, unless fate gets tempted!)

#varney the vampire #vampires #vampire studies #long post #recaps

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cardcaptorsakura96 · 29 days

Text

We're All In This Together-Chapter 4

Fandom: Supergirl, Batman, Superman, The Flash

Characters: Kara Danvers, Clark Kent, Bruce Wayne, Barry Allen, Barbara Gordon, Leonard Snart, Mxyzptlk, John Stewart, Lois Lane, Jimmy Olsen

Summary: Kara, Clark, and Barry are taken off guard by a request by the imp Mxyzptlk: watch over and protect the children of their alternate selves from a different Earth. Will our heroes rise to the occasion?

Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3

Mxy suddenly appeared in the middle of a den. He winced because everything was in shades of green from the walls to the furniture. The only thing that wasn’t green was white the door to enter and exit the room.

Mxy sighed and muttered, “Probably white so that a sane person knows how to leave the room without knocking themselves out. I know the Lanterns like green, but this is too much.”

Mxy shook his head while looking around until he found his targets. As he looked around, his face fell as he saw three sad children sitting on the couch with John in front of them talking.

Mxy sighed and muttered, “At least they are not crying full-fledged tears.”

Mxy shook his head as he walked towards the group. About two years ago, both John and Mxy had a sinking suspicion that this wouldn’t likely be their permanent home. The Green Lanterns weren’t making any ground with Superman and his clones. As much as they wanted to be in denial about that, John and Mxy agree that the kids need to be prepared to leave at a moment’s notice. That also meant figuring out a way to let them know the gravity of the situation without permanently scarring them for life. Since they turned three, they decided to keep the concept for them simple. They told them they were caretakers for them until they found them permanent homes with a parent(s). They told the children multiple times over the years so that they would not be blindsided. However, he should have known that they would be upset regardless. This was the only home they had ever known, and they were suddenly being taken away from it.

Mxy gave a soft smile as he knelt so he was at eye level with the children and asked, “Why do my favorite people in the world have such sad looks on their faces?”

Alura looked up with big round eyes and huge pout. Mxy would almost chuckle if it wasn’t such a serious situation.

It’s uncanny how she has Kara’s infamous pout down.

Alura said as her voice wavered, “It isn’t fair Uncle Mxy. We don’t want to leave.”

Jonathan looked up with teary eyes and said, “We would miss you guys too much.”

Mxy nearly winced at that statement.

He tried to force a smile and said, “We have had this conversation before that this was a place temporary for you guys until we find you a new home.”

Alura’s pout became more pronounced. Mxy was nearly startled. He didn’t she could get her pout to look so big.

“But we like it here better,” whined Alura.

Jonathan sniffled while wiping his eyes with his sleeves and asked, “Is it because I accidentally bumped into the vase and it fell? I said I was sorry. I tried to fix it but it kept falling apart.”

John kneeled down in front of Johnathan and gently grabbed his hand while rubbing smooth circles around it. He used his other hand to lift Jonathan’s face so they were staring eye to eye with each other.

John gave a soft smile and said, “You guys never did anything wrong. It isn’t safe for you to stay here. I would never forgive myself if something were to happen to you guys.”

Alura whimpered and said, “But the Green Lanterns are the greatest army ever.”

“Ultraman is coming,” said Nora softly.

Mxy and John looked at Nora startled. They have tried to keep the devastation caused by Superman (or Ultraman as he began to call himself this year) from them, but looking back Mxy realized that may have been unrealistic. There were other Green Lanterns and staff that the kids ran into throughout the day. He shouldn’t be surprised that the kids may have picked up on a few things.

Jonathan frowned and said, “Ultraman isn’t real. That is just a story to scare children.”

Nora turned to Johnathan terrified and said a little louder, “It is true. I heard some of the other Green Lanterns talking about it. Ultraman destroyed 30 of the Green Lantern’s rings.”

Alura looked up startled and said, “That can’t be true. The Green Lantern rings are supposed to be powerful.”

John sighed while rubbing the back of his head and said, “What Nora said is true. We are struggling to prevent Ultraman from reaching Oa. That is why we want to get you guys to a safe place.

Alura and Johnathan looked up at John terrified. Nora looked down while wringing her hands.

John scooped all of the kids in for a hug. The kids all embraced him tightly.

John said softly, “I don’t want you guys to worry. The rest of the Lanterns and I will be holding him and his army off while Mxy gets you to a safe location.”

“Will you come back for us when this is over?” mumbled Alura with tears streaming down her face.

John tried to keep a passive face but was struggling.

“No, my dear, you are going to your permanent home now.”

Mxy gave a soft smile and asked, “Do you guys remember that I told you that I was looking for a mommy and daddy to take care of you guys? You were all excited about having parents.”

“But that means losing you guys too,” said Nora softly while wringing her hands.

“We don’t want to go if it means not seeing you guys again,” wailed Jonathan.

John hugged them tighter and said, “I don’t want you guys to go either, but my priority is to keep you guys safe.”

Mxy embraced them all as well and said, “I know you guys won’t be able to see John again, but I will still be around with weekly check-ins.”

All three kids looked up at him surprised.

Mxy smirked and said, “You guys aren’t getting rid of me that easily.”

The children looked away sheepishly.

After a couple of minutes, Nora looked up thoughtfully and said, “Are the new parents nice?”

Mxy smiled and said, “They are the best. They are very kind and noble. And guess what?”

All the kids look up at him curiously.

“What?” asked Alura scratching her head.

Mxy leaned in lowered and whispered, “They are all superheroes.”

“Really?” squealed all three kids.

Mxy smiled and said, “Yes, they are their universe’s greatest defenders, and they are looking forward to meeting you all.”

“What kind of heroes are they?” asked Nora quizzically.

“Remember the stuffed animals that I gave you guys earlier?” asked Mxy.

The kids nodded.

“They are modeled after The Flash, Superman, and Supergirl,” said Mxy.

All of the kids looked at each other in awe.

Read the rest on AO3

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boldlyanxious · 1 year

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Steph as ladybug :3c

This has been ages. So sorry

It isn't really what I think you were asking for but it was what happened.

I did try to get someone else to write something closer to what might be wanted so hopefully that will come too

It had been years but Steph had found the girl fairly easily.

Batman kept the records hidden but Jason has helped her find them. They had been untouched since they were sealed there. She probably never would have figured it out Marinette was a hero if she weren’t already watching her house.

She and Jason munched on a selection of treats from the patisserie. She hadn’t even been able to go in herself. She was too nervous at what she might find. But Jason understood. He was there for her every step of the way.

They watched as the red spotted hero landed on the roof and entered the room as a flash of light revealed Marinette. She couldn’t face her past but she couldn’t let it continue like this. They pored over the interviews for the past few years and realized that the heroes were not just children. They had the responsibility forced on them by another. They hadn't been given a choice but to fight or give in.

Steph knew that she had made the choice to fight when she was young because she wanted better for herself and her mom. She wanted to hurt her father because he had hurt them.

It was also her choice that put the girl here.

She was the one to sneak into the room. It wouldn’t be a good look for Jason to be caught in the room of a fourteen year old girl no matter what the reason. She paused when she got to the bed. She knew she needed to take the earrings but she hesitated before she looked.

The child was sleeping peacefully. Her face was soft and worry free. That is the life Steph had wanted for her. The life she hadn’t been able to provide at fifteen. She hadn’t looked then because she knew she wouldn’t be able to let her go but she deserved better. She still deserved better.

Steph moved quickly to get the earrings off. The child only stirred slightly. The only movement was the sudden appearance of a red sprite that followed after her when she went for the trapdoor. There would likely be a panic when she realized her earrings were missing but this was for the best.

—

It had taken three weeks to end it.

They also had to remove Chat Noir from play too. He would not or could not get over their forced removal of Ladybug.

If his reaction was over the top then the reaction of the villain Hawkmoth was explosive. He was furious about them swooping in and taking his prize. The city of Paris was in constant chaos from the moment they announced they had taken into as the Ladybug and the Chat. Many of the citizens had to shelter in place by the end. The emotional effect of the constant siege provided far too many unwilling participants for the emotional manipulation.

Steph probably shouldn’t be so happy that Marinette was never one of them.

It spoke to her fortitude which she had no place in shaping. She knew that, but it still made her feel proud that she had been robbed of her chance to fight and still didn’t turn.

She had gone to a small massage parlor and spoke with the healer inside for a while. Steph waited for her to leave before she dropped in on the man who had turned the children into heroes forced to fight against a villain without any training. His lies about the secret magical society were expected but when they took the jewels from him, she hadn’t expected him to run from the city that very night. He didn’t even try to fight back.

—

The battle was tough. She almost wished she had told more of the people she knew about what they were doing here. But the people of the city loved their heroes even if they weren’t the same ones they had always known. They rallied behind them and based on the comments online, a lot of them were happy to see older heroes and hoped that the children were doing well after their sudden disappearance.

But when the Ladybug fell during the fight with Hawkmoth and couldn’t immediately fight back and the Chat was too far away to help, the citizens turned to protect her. That was what they needed to turn the tide of the battle. The additional people fighting was just enough to catch Hawkmoth unprepared and it ended up being Marinette that ripped the broach off him. His cane whipped out and knocked her feet out from under her but she already had the jewelry in her hand. He was revealed as she hit the ground.

The Ladybug took the girl and swung away. Her Chat took care of the downed villain. The police were quick to show up and arrest him and the press was buzzing about the reveal.

None of this mattered to Steph.

She cast the cure as she had been taught by Tikki after capturing the miraculous and Marinette was no longer injured by her fall.

“What are you doing?” she asked. “You stole my miraculous.”

“You never should have been burdened with it.”

“I failed. I failed all of Paris and Tikki.”

Steph reached out for her hand.

“Marinette, you didn’t fail and you will have the earrings again. I promised Tikki I would return them once Hawkmoth was defeated.”

Marinette covered her mouth. Her tears were hovering on the edge of falling.

“I won’t be allowed to keep her. You said my name. Youknow who I am so I have to give her up.”

“I only found out you were Ladybug because I was following you, and there is no one to take it back now. Your mentor left when we took the rest of his jewels.”

She spit out the last part in disgust and didn’t realize that Marinette was stuck on the first part.

“You were following me?”

She jumped up, preparing to run away but Tikki’s voice stopped her.

“Wait, please hear her out,” Tikki said.

Steph held the earrings in her hand out towards the girl.

“I’m pregnant,” she said. “The only person who knows so far is the new Chat. We were both heroes as teens and we didn’t want our child to need to fight like we did. That is what made me decide to find out what happened to my first child.”

Marinette turned back towards her, no longer trying to run away. Tikki floated over to nuzzle up to her as she listened. Steph sat down before she continued and Marinette sat nearby but out of reach.

“I don’t even know if you know and if you don’t I’m so sorry for revealing the secret. I was just fifteen when I gave birth. I wanted better for my child. It nearly broke me when I told them to take you away without even looking at your face. I knew I would never have gone through with it if I had seen or held you. But someone I trust helped find a loving couple who wanted a baby more than anything.”

“I knew I was adopted,” Marinette said quietly. “I tried to not think of why I had no one when I was born because I knew my parents wanted me.”

“I'm happy about that. I never meant to spring this on you. I wanted to wait until you were older and decided you wanted to know more. I will stick to that until you and your parents try to find me.”

She held out the earrings and Marinette didn’t reach out for them but Tikki floated out and took them from her.

“I am not ready,” she said finally.

“You don’t have to be. I’m leaving. I have told Tikki what she needs to know to find me if you ever decide you are,” she turned away so her daughter couldn’t see her tears forming. “Be well until then.”

#Ladybug Steph #biomom Steph #maribat #boldlyanxious #bold answers

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g1itchtree · 5 months

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Divulgence- Part 1

Okay quick authors note cause! Why not!

This is a new lukadrinette series. Honestly I love this ship so much it needs more stuff so. Here I am! It’ll be a bit canon divergent, idk how much but Chat and Ladybug actually have proper communication so that’s fun.

Updates will be pretty sporadic, basically whenever the writing mood strikes me. I wrote this in only like a few hours but then l’ll go weeks without writing lmao

Also I really have no idea how to use tumblr and I’m on my phone so if these are formatted weird please let me know

That’s it I guess? Enjoy!

———

“Miraculous ladybug!” Ladybug shouted as she tossed the spotted Dino Huggie in the air. As always, the magic ladybugs swirled around the city, fixing any damage the akuma had caused.

There was one thing that couldn’t be reversed, however.

As Marinette- no, Ladybug. As Ladybug gave Alec his charm and the trio of heroes brought him back to his TV crew, Luka couldn’t help but dread the consequences of what he had learned today. Two of his close friends (if that could even describe what he felt for each of them) were Paris’s superheroes. The sheer fact that they risked their lives every day and still managed to make time for average civilian life was astounding.

He was beginnning to understand why Marinette was always running off.

After they were done with Alec, he and Ladybug zipped off toward an empty alleyway. As soon as the coast was clear he took off his Miraculous and handed it over.

“Thank you, Luka,” Ladybug smiled at him, tucking the bracelet back in her yo-yo. And yeah, he could totally see it now that he knew. He knew quantum masking was powerful and all, but they had the same exact smile, same sparkle in her eyes after a job well done. How could he have missed that?

“Thanks to you, our secret identities were preserved and no one discovered who Chat Noir and I really are.”

Oh, she was still talking. Luka should probably stop staring.

It didn’t seem to matter too much though, because she turned to leave right after. Except she stopped right before tossing her yo-yo, that nervous smile that was just a bit too tight and her eyes a bit too wide to be genuine on her face. “Not even you, right?”

“Not even me,” He confirmed, though he could feel his nerves bubbling up. “Luckily Wishmaker never hit you or Chat Noir.”

Ladybug narrowed her eyes at him, and he knew she could see right through him. Like he could hear her inner song, she seemed to be able to know his deepest thoughts, no matter how much he tried to play it cool. Sure, that was part of the reason he fell for her. She was always the first to comfort him whenever things got a bit much. But damn, if it wasn’t inconvenient right now.

With a look outside the alley to make sure no one was near, she let out a deep sigh, her shoulders slumped as she leant against the wall. “Tikki, spots off.”

With a pink glow, the suit slipped away, leaving only Marinette and her kwami behind, looking stressed to all hell.

“Sorry,” Luka muttered, mostly on reflex.

“It’s not your fault, I knew this was a possibility when I asked for your help,” She assured, fishing a macaron out of her bag and giving it to Tikki. “Is it just me, or Chat Noir too?”

“Both,” He admitted, tugging at the bottom of his hoodie with discomfort. “…you looked really cute as the knitting fairy?”

She looked at him with that adorable expression she had whenever she was disgruntled or surprised, nose scrunched and lips pursed slightly. She then let out a laugh, shaking her head and pressing her hands to her face. “Fuuuck, that’s embarrassing.”

“Not at all,” He waved it off, grinning just a bit despite the circumstances.

“What was Chat Noir’s?” She asked, then seemed to realize her mistake. “Wait, maybe you shouldn’t tell me that, scratch it-”

“He just wanted to please his parents,” Luka shrugged, figuring that wasn’t too bad. Lots of people wanted to do that. “Make them proud, do whatever they said.”

Marinette furrowed her brows ever so slightly, nodding after a moment. “Yeah, that makes sense. I know his dad is overbearing, but he still loves him.”

The two sat in silence as Tikki finished her snack, unsure of where to go from there. Eventually though, the tiny god wiped her face and gave Luka a smile, diving into Marinette’s bag.

“We should head back and find Adrien,” She said after that, pushing herself off the wall. “Can you come back to my place after? We… need to talk.”

“Of course,” He agreed, but really he was dreading that conversation. Many possibilities ran through his head, each worse than the last. Would she not let him be Viperion again? Would she tell him they couldn’t be seen together anymore? Would he have to leave the country just so Shadow Moth couldn’t get to him?

The endless downward spiral screeched to a stop as Marinette took his hand, giving him that tiny smile that said everything would be fine. “It’ll be okay. Let’s just head back for now.”

And so they went.

———

As soon as they reached her bedroom after talking with her parents, Marinette immediately started freaking out.

She paced back and forth, hands tugging at her hair as she started to plan. “Okay so obviously it’s bad that you know who both of us are. If it was just one that might be okay- hell I already told someone, and I let Chat know that he could do the same. But both is a recipe for disaster! If Shadow Moth finds out, then you or your family could get hurt, and if you’re akumatized? I don’t even- that can’t happen! I could load you up on charms, sure, but what if you lose them? Or they break? Wait, can they even break? What if-“

“Marinette,” Luka interrupted, making her stop in her tracks. “You’re going to burn a hole in your floor if you keep going like this.”

She let out a sheepish laugh, her eyes dropping to her feet. “Sorry, sorry.”

“Come on, sit down,” He offered, patting the spot next to him on the chaise. “Let’s work through this one problem at a time, without catastrophizing.”

“Right, okay,” She agreed, plopping down and taking a deep breath. “How about… do you have any questions for me?”

“You mentioned others know?” He started with, figuring that was easiest.

“Oh yeah, that’s a pretty recent development,” She admitted, looking down at her hands. “I told Alya, after the Gang of Secrets mess she figured something big was up. I… I was really struggling balancing my superhero and civilian life, and it kind of just came out.”

“That’s perfectly reasonable,” Luka said, giving her his patient smile that honestly made it super hard not to cry. “I’m sure being Ladybug is stressful enough, and after you became Guardian? I’m not sure I would’ve been able to handle it myself.”

She bit her tongue, holding back from saying that she wholeheartedly believed anyone could do better than her, and she was sure Luka would do utterly amazing. She instead continued her answer, picking at her nails a bit. “I told Chat Noir who Carapace was, cause it was a bit unfair that I got someone and he didn’t, and obviously Carapace isn’t me so there was no risk of him accidentally telling me his identity. And the two are around the same age, and I know Carapace can keep a secret if it really matters. I’m not sure if Chat ever approached him though.”

Luka nodded, silent for a while before asking his next question. “Will… will I get to be Viperion again after this?”

Marinette sighed, dragging her hands over her face as she thought about it. “I don’t know… in all honesty, I really shouldn’t. But… you know how this all works already, and you’re really good at it too! Finding someone else I can trust to wield that power will be a lot of trouble. It’s easy to abuse it or not really know how to utilize it. And… I know Sass likes you a lot, too.”

That made Luka smile, a low chuckle escaping him. “Well, I like Sass too. I’d miss the little guy.”

Marinette couldn’t help but smile back, glancing to where the Miracle Box was hidden. “I guess… well, I won’t call on you unless it’s really needed. But… so long as no one ever finds out you know, then it shouldn’t be too much of a problem.”

“I can keep a secret, there’s no need to worry about that,” Luka assured, placing a hand on her shoulder.

She glanced up at him, the familiar butterflies returning once more. It wasn’t fair that he was just so… so charming! And comforting! And someone she could just be herself around without any fear! Not to mention absolutely gorgeous? Honestly, it’s like the universe was trying to make her suffer.

“Marinette?” He all but whispered, drawing her attention back to reality. His brows were pulled together ever so slightly and he was biting the inside of his cheek, sure signs that something was on his mind.

“What’s wrong?” She immediately asked, starting to panic. Did he think this was too much? Did he not want to be seen with her anymore? This was the first time they’ve really spoken after the breakup, and honestly, she didn’t know if she could watch him leave again. Even if it was for the better.

“I… the whole reason we broke it off was because you’re Ladybug, right?” Luka asked, immediately filling her with dread. “Because you had to keep leaving, and I couldn’t know why.”

She winced at that, turning gaze back down to her hands. “Yes, that’s most of it… and I’m so sorry for that, Luka. I just couldn’t tell you. If I hadn’t broken down, I wouldn’t have even told Alya! I just didn’t want to put you in danger, but I still-”

“No, I get it,” He immediately assured, moving the hand on her shoulder to her own hand. “Now I do, at least. I’ve never had any hard feelings about it, I knew you had your reasons. I still loved you, even though I couldn’t be the one who you open your heart to. I still do, even now.”

“You… you still…?” Marinette whispered, looking to him with wide eyes. Great, now she felt even worse for dumping all this on him. He now knew why it was totally unable to work at all, not with the utter mess that was her life.

“I do, and now that I know you’re Ladybug…” He trailed off, looking down to where his hand laid on hers, slowly interlacing their fingers. “I really wanted us to work, y’know? Is there… any chance we still might?”

“Wait, you-” She immediately moved back, pulling her hand away. “Are you serious? You- after all I did, you still-”

“Sorry, that was probably too much,” He immediately backpedaled at her reaction, hiding his obvious hurt behind a smile. She could see it though, and it made her feel all the worse. “I just wanted you to know I care about you. I get why you wouldn’t want to, though.”

“Hold on, I didn’t say that,” It was her turn to interrupt as she held her hand out, cutting him off. “Just… give me a minute. I honestly wasn’t expecting that.”

Luka softened at her flushed cheeks and how she bit her lip, his affection for her evident in the look he gave. “Of course, take all the time you need.”

She visibly relaxed at that, leaning against the back of the chaise as she contemplated it. She glanced up at him every so often, then at her picture board, and a few times towards the box.

“I… I wouldn’t be able to dedicate enough time to you,” Marinette started with. “I would always have to run off, leave you behind again.”

“And I’m okay with that,” He said. “I was just worried that something was wrong with you before, that you were in danger. Or that I did something wrong. But I know why now, and I can help you escape if it’s needed.”

She let out a sigh, knowing he had a point. “If Shadow Moth ever finds out who I am…”

“He won’t,” Luka immediately cut in, that passionate fire blazing in his eyes. God, she loved that look. “You’re always so careful. That’s why I was there today, right? To ensure Shadow Moth wouldn’t find you. And that was a good call. There’s no way he’ll find out who you are.”

He really wasn’t making this any easier, was he?

“Dammit, Luka…” She muttered, uncurling herself and moving back next to him. “I really lo…like you, too…” She winced at the stutter, cursing herself for being unable to really express her feelings. “You make me feel so… comfortable? I don’t know if that’s the right word. I can just relax around you, not worry about every little thing. I hated breaking it off. I do want to be with you, really. But… I still don’t think it’s a good idea. I still… I lik-”

“Is it Adrien?”

Marinette turned to him with wide eyes, sputtering at that. “I- wha- nooo, of course not! Why would I ever… was I that obvious?”

“I think the only one who doesn’t know is him,” Luka joked, bumping their shoulders together. “I don’t blame you. Honestly, I’ve got the hots for him too.”

“You do??” She almost shouted, mouth agape. “But- you just-”

“You can love more than one person, Marinette,” He started, taking her hand in his again. “It doesn’t have to be this exclusive thing. I mean, it’s definitely not everyone’s cup of tea, but I personally have no problem with you pursuing a relationship with Adrien while you’re with me.”

She looked from their hands to his eyes, utterly confused at this point. “I- I’m not sure I understand.”

He laughed at that, tucking a loose hair behind her ear. “That’s alright. I can try to explain.”

He turned away, a little smile on his face as he walked her through it. “Love isn’t something that’s limited. Some people choose to only love one person with their whole being, and that’s perfectly fine. But others prefer to have more than just one partner. They spread their love evenly and wholly. And you, Marinette, have more love to give than anyone I’ve met. I’d honestly feel bad keeping you to myself.”

She was silent, processing his words. “So… you, me, and Adrien would all be a couple?”

“That depends. I’m not sure if Adrien’s into me. But we don’t all need to date each other for it to work,” He explained. “As long as there��s communication and clear boundaries, then I see no reason why you can’t date who you want. The only question is, are you comfortable with that?”

Marinette thought about it, coming up short with a perfect answer, as was the pattern with her feelings. But… it sounded nice. “I don’t know. It… I guess I wouldn’t mind trying? I haven’t even considered that.”

“Most people don’t,” Luka smiled, turning back to face her. “It’s fine if you don’t want to. Just follow your heart.”

My heart really wants to kiss you.

The thought turned her bright red, but she was unable to deny its validity. Could you blame her? The way he looked at her, with endless compassion and devotion, made her absolutely melt. Now that she had this new perspective, she honestly couldn’t bear letting him go again.

It seemed he felt the same. He was slowly leaning in, bringing a hand to her face. Not pulling, just caressing her gently. His eyes flicked down to her lips then back up, a new glint of desire in them.

Fuck it.

She grabbed him by his hoodie and pulled him down to her before she could second guess herself. He jumped a bit in surprise but adjusted quickly, tilting his head ever so slightly as he reciprocated it.

It was quite honestly the best thing she’s ever done. His lips were soft and warm, and they fit against hers perfectly. His hands were rough from years of playing guitar, and the feeling of them on her was too good to ignore. The one holding her hand moved to her waist, drawing tiny shapes there.

They pulled apart after a few moments, both breathless at the exchange. Marinette immediately panicked once it was over, which should honestly be expected. “Oh my god, we just- wait I am so sorry I didn’t even ask that was so awful of me! I can’t believe I did that, I’m so-”

“Mari, it’s okay,” Luka interrupted with a laugh, pressing a quick kiss to her forehead. “I wanted it too, no worries. You can ask next time if it bothers you that much.”

She looked up at him with amazement, smiling nervously. “How do you always manage to calm me down?”

“I know you,” He murmured, sending her heart into overdrive.

She hesitated for just a second, a bit shy but really wanting to continue. “Can I… can I kiss you? Again?”

He huffed in amusement, dipping his head down to capture her lips in his. She immediately melted against him, a little content hum escaping her. She brought a hand to his hair, threading her fingers through it and pulling him closer.

She really had no idea what she was doing, but Luka made everything so easy. He slowly backed her up so she was against the back of the chaise, moving the hand on her cheek to the back of her neck. His tongue glided over her lips carefully before retreating, giving her the chance to back away if she needed to.

Yeah, like hell.

Instead, she gave an experimental poke of her, surprised to be met with his. She let him guide her, following his movements and slowly making bolder moves of her own. She tightened her grip on his hair, not quite pulling but definitely firm. A low groan escaped him and he kissed her with more fervor, clearly affected by her actions.

Marinette herself was thrilled with this course of action, giving a few more slight tugs as she wrapped her legs around him. Before they could get too into it however, she felt someone watching them. Many someones.

With a groan, she reluctantly pulled away, glaring over at the kwamis. Most of them had their heads poked out, including Tikki, the traitor.

Luka sat back with a laugh, giving a small wave to the creatures. Daizzi rushed forward first, flying around his head with excitement. “Are you the Guardian’s new partner? That’s so amazing! She’s been really upset, honestly. Staring at those photos of you all day, that glum look on her face.”

“That’s enough!” Marinette squeaked out, grabbing Daizzi and covering her mouth. “Another word and I won’t be sneaking you any choquettes!”

“We’re just happy for you, that’s all!” Xuppu cheered, the rest of the kwamis flying out. “And it sounds like you can still be with Adrien! It’s a win-win!”

“Please don’t take our choquettes!” Mullo whimpered, giving Marinette her puppy dog eyes.

“Ugh, fine, just don’t peak next time we make out…” She sighs, letting Daizzi go.

Luka perks up at that, shooting her a smirk. “Next time?”

Marinette turned red, waving her arms around awkwardly. “What? Did I say that? Pfft, how silly would that be? Unless you want there to be a next time, then I’d be more then happy cause honestly that was really hot and I wanted to keep going but! I get if you don’t want to cause I wasn’t really expecting to either, not to say it was amazing, it totally was, and please just shut me up already…”

He laughed at the last bit, pressing a quick kiss to her lips. “I’m totally down for more. But maybe another time… I’m sure we’ll get some privacy next time?”

He looked to the kwamis, and each instantly nodded their agreement, giggling and looking between the two of them.

“See?” Luka gestures to them, that easy smile stretched across his face. “No trouble.”

“I should probably feed them now, anyways,” Marinette sighed, slowly standing up. “Do you want to grab something too?”

He grinned up at her, grabbing her hand and pulling the hatch down open. “Lead the way.”

#lukadrinette #lukadrien #adrinette #miraculous ladybug #marinette dupain cheng #luka couffaine #miraculoustalesofladybugandcatnoir #viperion #chat noir #ladybug and chat noir #ml ladybug #fanfic

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deadlygronkle · 1 year

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Ancestor's legacy part 10

The Desert Chapter 1

(All parts on tumblr have the 'ancestor's legacy' tag).

Twilight groggily opened his eyes the next morning. He definitely did not get enough sleep last night to be doing this. With him dozing off at the Hero Shade’s grave and getting caught by Time. Not to mention the struggle of even going to sleep once he got back into the room.

Twilight grimaced, he could barely see light coming in from the windows, of course he woke up during the twilight hour. He couldn’t go back to sleep either. If he did he definitely wouldn’t be able to wake up in time to leave.

Groaning Twilight sat up, and took a look around the room. He could see Four, Wild, and Hyrule next to him in a pile sleeping. Getting up he gently grabbed the blanket he was using and laid it out over the three.

Grabbing his bag Twilight set to work picking up anything that he missed before he went to bed. Once he got all of his things together he started slowly making his way out of the room. While also making sure that the others were comfortable.

He gently lifted Sky up and put him in a more comfortable position on the bed. Sky is a heavy sleeper so it shouldn’t wake him, and it honestly looked like Sky was about to fall off. Legend looked fine from where he was leaning on a wall, so Twilight left him alone,though he was most definitely awake at this point.

When he got to Wind in the main section of the room he did a mental tally of the Links. He could’ve sworn Warriors’ arm was a pillow for Wind when he came in last night. Time was on the couch snoring and there was nowhere left in the room for him to go. Not to mention Wind was completely covered up, which never lasts the night, so it had to be recent.

Twilight went back to Legend and lightly kicked him whispering, “Vet, where is Cap?”

Legend opened one eye grouchily, “How should I know?”

“You’re a light sleeper and was probably woken up by him leaving,” Twilight pointed out.

“All I know is he left the room. Now let me go back to sleep,” Legend closed his eye and turned his head away.

“Thanks I guess,” Twilight murmured before double checking he had all of his things.

Twilight as quickly and quietly as he could, left the room. Luckily, Time’s snoring should have been just loud enough to block it out. Twilight wasn’t as stealthy as he thought because Warriors was standing near him unamused.

“So you're leaving soon huh?” Warriors asked, leaning on the wall closest to him.

“Just now actually. I’ll…. I’ll y’all in a week or so,” Twilight responded, quickly turning around to walk off.

“Let us come with you,” The captain suddenly said.

Twilight turned around, “What?”

“Let us come with you. We were all put together for a reason, maybe this is one of them,” Warriors repeated.

“I highly doubt a Twilight Zone would be the reason why we were all placed together,” Twilight retorted, crossing his arms.

“But it could be the reason we were brought here and why we haven’t been teleported away yet,” Warriors annoyingly pointed out.

Twilight sighed, “I don’t anyone getting hurt on my account. It’s better if you guys stay here,”

“We’ve all dealt with injuries, it’s a part of being a hero, besides the same can be said about you too,” Warriors retorted.

“I don’t think it can, I know my Hyrule well enough to stay out of trouble,” Twilight refused.

“But you don’t know our enemies. Hell we fought some of yours in my Hyrule. What’s to say you won’t encounter mine in return?” Warriors questioned, giving Twilight a pointed look.

“I can avoid them then,” Twilight deflected, uncrossing his arms and letting them fall to his sides.

“And what of the others? If you get hurt by one of theirs or don’t make it back-” Warriors started.

“That won’t happen,” Twilight interrupted sharply, glaring at Warriors.

Warriors put his hands up, almost like he was trying to placate Twilight, “I’m not saying it will! Just think about how guilty we all would feel if we weren’t there to protect you,”

Twilight didn’t say anything and instead looked away. He didn’t think about that when he made the plan to leave while everyone else was asleep. After spending so much time with the others it wasn’t hard to imagine their betrayed and heartbroken faces. Hell Sky made a good point that while it may be faster it wasn’t safer for Twilight.

At Twilight’s silence Warriors added on, “Let us help you, this isn’t another solo adventure. We are a team now, no one is going to let you do this alone,”

Twilight grimaced and stared up at the ceiling. He couldn’t allow the other to feel the pain of transforming. It would leave them all far too defenseless, like newborn calves . Not to mention Twilight would have to go about teaching them how to move and interact with the world. The only bright side is that they will have someone to teach them, instead of them figuring it out on their own like he had to.

Twilight had a feeling he was going to regret this, “Fine. You can wake up the others and bring them are 3 conditions,”

Warriors grinned brightly, “And those are?”

“First one is that you need to get everyone up and out by the West gate in 15 minutes,” Twilight answered, holding up a finger.

“30 minutes, Sky is tough to wake up on the best of days,” Warriors bargained.

“25, I want to get down to Lake Hylia before nightfall,” Twilight bargained back.

“Deal, what's the second one?” Warriors inquired.

“The second will be that you guys are just going with me up to the Gerudo Desert. Not any further, and definitely not into the Twilight Zone,” Twilight held up a second finger.

“I work with that for now. Though it could change later,” Warriors replied, putting his hands on his hips, “What the third?”

Twilight had a feeling there would definitely be an argument later about it. No way the others would agree to it. Knowing them they will probably follow him despite his wishes.

“Third, I just want everyone to move as quickly as they can. The ways down to Lake Hylia are very limited once the sun sets,” Twilight answered, getting ready to leave.

“I’ll relay this to the others. See you in a bit!” Warriors called out smugly as he loudly opened the door and slammed it shut.

Twilight winced at the sudden noise and could hear Warriors yelling at all of them to wake up. Twilight wasn’t going to stay around for that fall out. A cranky Link is one who will cause an outright war.

Twilight quickly left the castle, easily navigating the labyrinth that is the castle. Surely the others wouldn’t get lost after they all found their way back last night. Once he was out of the castle he practically ran to the West gate, passing the doctor clinic. Seriously, that old man had to be close to kicking the bucket, though he was a stubborn old grouch, so it was tough to say.

Making right outside the gate Twilight pulled out his horse call, the charm that Iila gave during his quest. Playing Epona’s song was like second nature at this point. He was sure Epona could hear it, he just had to play it long enough for her to find him.

After playing several minutes of Epona’s song he could hear her neighing from opposite side of the field. Twilight stopped playing as he walked to meet the galloping Epona. When Epona stopped he gently stroked her muzzle.

“You ready to go to Lake Hylia?” Twilight asked Epona, who nickered and nuzzled closer in response.

“I know, I know, we’ll see if Cap can get everyone out in time. If not then I think we can spare some time for you to run,” The wolf hero smiled as he moved to put some of his equipment in her saddlebag.

Just as he was finishing he heard the sound of the Links coming closer, just in time too. It was just a little after sunrise, with good timing the entire group could get to Falbi’s and down to the Lake before nightfall.

“I swear I could hear the music- Wait there’s Epona!” Twilight could hear Smithy call out to the other Links.

“But where’s Twi? He said he would be out here,” Twilight could hear the confusion in The Captain's voice.

Twilight rose from his hunched over position and yelled out, “Well I’ll be! You actually got everyone up!”

“I always deliver Rancher. Though I think you’ll need to share Epona, some of them are lagging,” Warriors pointed behind him to the very groggy Wind and Sky.

“As long as they don’t fall asleep that can be arranged,” Twilight confirmed, motioning over the other Links as he opened his map up.

“So how are we getting to the Desert Pup? From the sounds of it it’s somewhere close by?” Time asked, looking over Twilight’s shoulder.

“Yeah, where are we going?” Wild came up to Twilight’s other side.

Twilight pointed where they were in the map,”So here we are, and we need to get over here to Falbi’s,”

“What’s at Falbi’s?” Warriors asked as he picked up a sleepy Wind and placed him on Epona.

“It’s the safest way down. It’s even being a minigame,” Twilight explained as he folded up the map.

Sky yawned as he joined Wind on Epona, grabbing the reins he asked, “So how far away is it?”

“Well by myself I can get there in an hour by horseback. With everyone? Probably going to be an all day thing,” Twilight adjusted his bag so he could put away the map, “With luck we can get down to The Spring for the night,”

“How does Lake Hylia connect with the Gerudo Desert?” Four asked curiously.

“There is a…. Ride, the fastest and easiest way to the Desert,” Twilight answered reluctantly, starting to walk towards the correct exit.

“What ride?” Legend asked from behind him.

“You’ll see when we get there,” Twilight answered cryptically. He didn’t want the other to find out just yet that he had to travel in a cannon to get places.

After a little bit of walking Wild came up to Twilight holding out some of Uli’s pumpkin cake, “Here. I know you probably haven’t eaten yet,”

Twilight took the cake gratefully, “Thanks Cub,” before he took a bite he asked, “has everyone else eaten something today?”

“Yeah, everyone has had a bit of fruit. You are the only one who is running on empty,” Wild answered, easily keeping pace with his mentor.

Twilight glanced up, despite the fast pace the chain was taking it was nearing noon. Fruit wasn’t going to keep everyone's energy up. Not to mention since cuccos are going to be involved it would be better for them to eat sooner rather than later.

“Do you have the stuff to make a quick lunch?” Twilight asked, still not taking a bit of the cake.

“Yeah? Are we going to stop soon?” Wild asked, pulling out his Sheikah tablet to browse his inventory.

“Yup, the sooner we eat the easier the ride down will be. Hopefully,” Twilight grimaced at the mental image of the others throwing up.

Wild gave Twilight a curious look, “Just what are you planning?”

Twilight looked at Wild and chuckled, “Probably something that will get me yelled at by Time,”

“Why am I going to yell at you Pup?” Time asked, increasing his own pace to walk beside the two.

“Something that I have done since my journey that you think is ‘unsafe’. What else do you yell at me for?” Twilight stated, raising an eyebrow at Time.

“So you know that this is unsafe enough I would comment on it. Why are we even going to go do it?” Time asked incredulously.

Twilight shrugged, “It’s the best option available. I mean it’s not like I can teleport down there anymore,”

“So you did use magic at one point?” Warriors butted in loudly.

“Nope, sorry Captain, but I never did,” Twilight refused.

“So how did you teleport then?” Hyrule asked curiously.

“Yeah, was it a magic item or something?” Legend questioned, “And do you still have it?”

Twilight grinned, “Nope to that as well. It was my traveling companion who had that power,”

“Will we get to meet them?” Wind asked from in front of Sky on Epona.

Twilight’s grin faded as he remembered his last interaction with Midna, “No… She isn’t anywhere y’all can meet her. Not anymore,”

Legend spoke in a respectful tone, “Shame, wish I could’ve met her,”

Twilight softly smiled to himself, “You two would’ve either gotten along annoyingly well, or be at each other’s throats,”

“Why is that? Are we opposites?” Legend inquired.

“No, you both have the same personality. Except she was a bit more ‘proper’ even when she tried not to be,” Twilight looked back over his shoulder to meet Legend’s eyes.

“So how long until we make it to Lake Hylia?” Sky asked, doing a decent job steering Epona.

“At this rate? Couple of hours including a lunch break,” Twilight informed him.

“Do you have Zora in this world?” Wild asked curiously.

“Haven’t you mentioned them before? Like when we first met,” Time brought up.

“I think so, but yes they protect the Lakebed Temple at the very bottom of the lake. Their actual domain is upstream, it supplies basically all of the water in Lake Hylia,” Twilight explained to the group, but mostly Wild.

“Do you get along with them, or are we going to have a fight on our hands?” Legend wondered.

“Unless something changed very drastically in the last couple of months, no. I saved their king, Ralis and kept him company in Kakariko Village. Tells me to make myself at home in the Domain every time I visit,” Twilight chuckled fondly.

They continued talking amicably between each other as they walked. It was nice to be back on the trail after being stuck inside healing for days. The bruise that formed where the stitches were taken out ached occasionally when he moved wrong, but it was nothing he couldn’t handle. Losing an arm was definitely more painful than this.

Twilight stopped the group at the three road intersection. One where they came from, the other leading to Lake Hylia, and the third eventually leading to Upper Lanayru.

After stopping the group to eat quick sandwiches Twilight had the group continue on. This time Wind and Sky were off of Epona and Twilight was simply leading Epona with her reins. There were some bokoblins, but those were easily picked off by some arrows.

“Welp, here we are!” Twilight called out as he led Epona to the fence that blocked off the cliff.

Warriors whistled, “That is a large bridge!”

Wind ran up and jumped on the fence, “Ooooo! What’s that thing down there?”

Twilight looked to where The Sailor was pointing, “Oh that? It’s a cannon, it’s mainly to use to get back up here,”

Before Wind could continue asking questions Sky, after staring at the bridge for a while asked, “What’s the bridge called?”

Twilight unbothered answered, “The Great Bridge of Hylia, why?”

Slowly everyone turned to the oblivious wolf hero. Twilight was busy making sure he had everything from Epona’s satchel. Once he was sure he had everything Twilight was making sure that Epona would be comfortable here. There was plenty of grass for her to graze on so Epona would be fine.

“Pup?” Time asked, voice strained.

“Yeah? What is it?” Twilight turned around to see everyone’s concerned faces.

“You said this bridge is your Great Bridge of Hylia?” Time questioned slowly.

“Yes…?” Twilight answered slowly. Was this a trick question?

“Are there multiple Great Bridges?” Time asked, an exhausted, frustrated smile on his face.

“No? What are you-” Twilight remembered telling them about the time he jumped off the bridge, “oh,”

Warriors lost his composure completely as he howled with laughter, leaning on the railings for support. Wild, Hyrule, and Four were taking turns looking at each other, the bridge, and then looking back to Twilight. Wind and Sky’s faces were ashen like as they looked back to the very tall bridge. Legend looked mildly concerned but just as amused as Warriors.

Twilight scratched the back of his neck and awkwardly chuckled, “I swear the fall is less than it looks,”

Time pinched the bridge of his nose, “I highly doubt that Pup. That is definitely more than just a few stories,”

“You don’t have a glider. Just how the fuck are you alive!?” Wild blurted out.

Twilight shrugged as he fully stood up, “Luck I guess? Seems to be a common occurrence with my adventure,”

Sky leaned over the rail and looked down, “I don’t think you can scold Champion on jumping from high things anymore,”

Warriors chuckled, “Just Champion? More like any one of us when we do something risky,”

“How were you able to walk afterwards?” Hyrule asked, “That is a very long drop just to the water, and you did it when it was dried out!”

Twilight mentally crossed off ‘plan b’ of jumping off if the didn’t make it to Falbi’s in time, “No clue, I guess the goddesses took pity on me,”

Legend snorted, “Pity? More like they were actively stopping you from dying,”

Twilight sighed, “Come on, we need to get to Falbi’s,”

They walked over quickly to the weirdly built building practically hanging over the edge. The moment the others could hear the cuccos Twilight could feel the wary glances to his back.

The moment he walked in Twilight was hit with the smell of cucco feces. Wrinkling his nose Twilight continued to walk in with the others coughing as they walked in. Falbi was, like always, standing in front of the pass to jump down.

“Well, hi there Link! Welcome back to Falbi’s Flight-by-Fowl! Are you and your friends ready for a flight full of dreams and sweet, sweet bonuses? A Cucco-powered ride around Lake Hylia? You will LOVE it,” Falbi droned on, repeating nearly the same words like usual.

“Wait wait wait,” Warriors turned to Twilight, “We have to ride Cuccos down?”

“Yup, it’s not as bad as it sounds, the cuccos here are very mild tempered,” Twilight answered calmly.

“Is there no other way down?” Hyrule asked, stepping away from a curious cucco.

“Here I thought we weren’t jumping off the bridge,” Twilight dryly answered.

“Seriously? I thought you meant the other ways were too dangerous,” Legend spoke as he leaned away from a cucco Sky picked up.

“It’s either a slow glide down or a rapid plunge. But yes Falbi we are here for the ride down,” Twilight turned back to the ex circus actor.

“Great! Next up for fascination….. 9 HYLIANS. That will be 20 rupees per cucco!” Falbi answered, grinning.

“Come on Falbi,” Twilight gave a smile, “9 people, wouldn’t that count for a discount? This is also official business from Queen Zelda herself,”

Falbi thought for a second, “I’ll cut you a deal then, 15 rupees per cucco!”

“Wait, I have my paraglider. Do I still need to pay to jump off the balcony?” Wild questioned.

“Well yes, I have to make a living somehow! That cost is just 5 rupees though, lucky you!” Falbi answered, “Now that’ll be…. 125 rupees for everyone!”

“Hold on,” Legend grinned mischievously, “I have my Roc’s Cape here so that’s another 5 rupees,”

“I have my Sailcloth!” Sky spoke brightly, “That is also 5!”

“Huh, wouldn’t you know it? We both have Roc’s cape and I just so happened to have packed mine,” Four brought his out with a smug grin.

Falbi’s usual grin turned into a frown, “So four with their own gliding device and 5 without?”

Twilight glanced around, when no one brought up they had one Twilight answered, “Looks like it. What’s the new total?”

Falbi thought for a moment, “The new total is 95 rupees!”

Once everyone paid for their share in the total, the bargaining began.

“You gotta trade me Wild! These birds will definitely try and kill me the moment we are in the air!” Warriors begged.

“Nope, sorry Cap but they’ll do the exact same thing to me,” Wild grinned unashamedly.

“Sky? You get along with birds, mind lending me your Sailcloth,” Warriors asked, doing his best to guilt trip Sky.

Sky, to Twilight’s surprise, did not look even a little bit guilty as he answered, “No can do, my Zelda gave it to me,”

Warriors sulked, he didn’t even go to Legend or Four, he just reluctantly walked to Twilight, “Is there really no other way down?”

Twilight shook his head as he grabbed a particularly docile Cucoo, “Unless you want to try swimming in all that armor. Don’t worry though the Zora will probably get to you before you drown,”

“Probably?” The Captain sounded nervous.

“Yeah, they usually hang around the landing zone, and not, y’know, out here. Speaking of which,” Twilight turned to address the others, “I can’t believe this has never come up before, but are any of you poor swimmers or can’t swim?”

Hyrule raised his hand as Legend asked, “Why?”

“Well, when doing this for the first time it's somewhat difficult to land on the platform. Since I need to lead everyone to the landing zone, who here can glide around Hyrule to make sure he doesn’t fall?” Twilight asked the others.

Wild spoke up, “I can do it, my paraglider will make it easy to stay around him,”

The Ordonian nodded, dumping the docile cucco into Warriors’ arms, “Great, now who still needs a cucco?”

After getting everyone who needs a cucco a cucco, with Warriors somehow getting the cucco to cluck angrily at him. Twilight had no clue how he managed to do that, that cucco was the calmest Twilight ever worked with. Time, Wind, Hyrule, fared a lot better, though they were holding the cuccos away from their body.

Twilight grabbed the most aggressive of the cuccos and was quick to soothe and calm them. Twilight knew that these cuccos weren’t treated right. So every time he had to use this method he made sure the cuccos were released into the river.

Somehow the ones he dropped into the river ended up in Kakariko village where they were treated properly. It wasn’t the cucco’s fault that they were bought and brought here. Sometimes he would pay for a ticket to purely drop the cuccos off the edge. From what the ones in Kakariko village told him, anywhere was better than here.

“So everyone ready?” Twilight asked, securely trapping the bird under his arm as he walked to the balcony.

Once he obtained a nod from everyone he pointed with his free hand, “See that structure by the cannon? That’s what we are aiming for, try to go to the lowest two platforms, they are the easiest to land on,”

Legend had a thoughtful look, “What if we miss it all together?”

“That’s why I’m going first, so I could maybe grab one of you force you the right way, or jump in after you to help you out,” Twilight informed them before adding, “There is usually a Zora just at the base willing to help out as well if a lot of you miss the mark,”

“What if we land at the very top?” Wind asked curiously.

“You get a prize, I believe it was rupees or something when I did it,” Twilight went to the very edge and grabbed the plump bird with both hands turning around to face the others.

“What are you doing?” Time asked warily as he took a step forward.

Twilight gave his best wolfish, feral grin, “Just follow my lead,”

The Twilight allowed himself to fall backwards off the edge. Readjusting his grip on the bird midair Twilight twisted his body so the cucco was above his head and his feet were pointed at the lake. The cucco was quick to start flapping its wings, sending the two into an easy glide.

“PUP!” Time yelled out, clearly panicked racing to the edge only to see Twilight gliding away calmly.

Twilight laughed loudly, spinning slightly to yell out, “What are you waiting for? An invitation?”

The flight down was as easy as ever, he even ignored the rupee shaped rings to get down to the platforms. Letting go of the cucco a few feet off the ground, Twilight rolled to cushion the fall. He landed on the middle green platform, a good place to jump into action on either side of him.

Twilight spared a glance towards the cucco, which continued its flight path, plopping safely into the water. Then Twilight looked back to where he came from, waving at the Links to make sure they knew where he was. Counting the others, Twilight confirmed that everyone was still in the air coming towards him.

Sky, having one of the faster gliding methods, landed on the platform above Twilight with ease. Time was next, his cucco doing the best to shake him off so it was a rough landing. Luckily he aimed for Twilight’s platform so he was able to grab and pull his ancestor from stumbling over the edge.

“Thanks Pup. But never do that again, you nearly gave me a heart attack,” Time ordered, lightly smacking Twilight upside the head.

Twilight chuckled lightly as he went back to watching the others, “You and I both know I can’t promise such a thing,”

Time snorted, “Yeah, I know,”

Wind landed just fine up with Sky, yelling down about the purple rupee in the chest. Four and Warriors landed soon after with Four on the level under Twilight and Time. Warriors, despite the grumpy cucco, landed on the lowest level.

“Wars look!” Wind yelled down holding the rupee high in the air.

Warriors had one hand blocking the sun as he looked up, “Nice! That’s a purple one isn’t it?”

“Yup! Oh look Wild,Hyrule, and Legend are about here!” Wind called out pointing at the three.

Twilight lowered himself, ready to intercept Hyrule whatever way he decides to try and land. There was a Link on every platform, except for the spinning and orange one. He even went so far as to drop his bag down so he could move unrestricted.

Wild landed first, easily skidding to a halt on the platform Twilight and Time were on. Legend came next, with his Roc Cape he was able to stop right in the center of the second lowest platform.

“8 down, one to go,” Twilight whispered to himself.

Hyrule landed on the same platform Legend and Four were on easily enough. The issue started with letting go of the cucco. Hyrule just didn’t let go as he landed, while the cucco flapped it sent Hyrule to being unbalanced and falling forward.

He landed too close to the edge and was desperately trying to keep his balance from falling forward. All of this sent Twilight into action. Uncaring that he would get wet, Twilight ran and jumped down using his body to block Hyrule from falling off. Before he could properly fall into the water, Twilight shoved Hyrule back into Legend, who was also trying to stop Hyrule from going overboard.

The water was colder than usual as Twilight hit it with a large splash. Holding his breath, Twilight made sure to wave off the helpful Zora trying to help him up. The Zora, presumably realized who he was, nodded like they understood, but still hovered around just in case.

Twilight breached the surface of the water with a gasp. Looking up to the others he saw Hyrule leaning over the edge concerned with the rest just staring down at him.

“You alright down there Rancher?” Legend asked, pulling Hyrule away from the edge.

Twilight grinned, “It’ll take a lot more than that to take me out! Meet me over at the bridge,”

Twilight swam over to the little wooden raft bridge that connected Fyer’s cannon ride to the Isle of Riches. Hopefully the others got the prizes from the chests while he is sopping wet. He was faster than the others so he was the first on the small bridge, just getting up as the others joined him.

Twilight shook himself off like a dog, his clothes were still wet, but his wolf pelt and hair were more damp than wet.

“Ugh, Twilight!” Wild reprimanded, getting the full brunt of the shaking.

“A little water isn’t going to hurt you Wild,” Twilight replied, getting up and fully stretching out.

“Are you sure you're alright?” Hyrule asked worriedly, Twilight could feel the healing spell ready to use at a moment’s notice.

“Yup, never better. Luckily I planned for this, and we will bunk for the night around Lanayru Spring,” Twilight answered honestly as he pinched the sopping wet fabric.

“Lanayru Spring?Is that like Ordon Spring?” Sky asked, following behind as Twilight carefully went to the cannon.

“Pretty much, though this place gets a lot more traffic and worshippers than Ordon Spring,” Twilight answered, waving to Fyer as he passed.

Warriors grimaced, “We have to get you out of your armor, you smell like wet dog,”

Four’s grin was a little too wide for Twilight’s taste, “It’s probably just the wolf pelt!”

“Hey, what’s that?” Wild asked, skillfully pulling the conversation away and pointing to the Sky Cannon.

“That’s the Sky Cannon. I used it in my journey to travel up to the City in The Sky,” Twilight informed them as the group walked past it.

“Shad mentioned it, what’s it like up there?” Sky questioned curiously.

Twilight thought for a moment, “The air is very light up there, it was hard to catch my breath doing anything. I had to where my Iron boots everywhere so I wouldn’t just get flung off,”

“Sounds dangerous,” Sky noted.

“The view was worth it, if it wasn’t so out of the way from where we need to go I would be bringing y’all there instead,” Twilight finished as they came to the cave entrance.

Walking inside the spacious cavern, Twilight knelt on the outshoot stone. He remembered standing in that very spot, staring down Zant, getting the shadow crystal, and Midna getting injured severely. Hopefully this time will go better than the other times.

“Light Spirit Lanayru, it is Link of Ordon village. I was wondering if we could camp here for a while, under your protection from monsters that could be lurking,” Twilight spoke aloud to the waters.

At first nothing happened, but then a warm feeling settled over the Ordonian. It was light and airy, but filled with power. It was Lanayru’s presence and from what Twilight could feel the spirit was telling him ‘yes’. Even looking around the entire cave was brighter.

“Thank you, I promise we will clean up after ourselves,” Twilight said gratefully.

Just like that the presence faded and the cavern returned to a normal light. Turning around, the other Links were standing at the mouth of the cave, looking somewhat bored. They probably didn’t hear Twilight or realize Lanayru was nearby. Spirits after all don’t ever show their true selves unless in times of great peril.

As he walked back to the others who were quietly talking, the ones who glanced at him had to do a double take. In fact Hyrule lightly elbowed Wild who had his nose in his slate to look. Just the confused and curious looks he was getting from the others made Twilight warry.

“What?” Twilight asked slowing to a stop.

“Uhm- your markings- do they typically glow like that?” Sky asked, scratching his face.

“My markings are glowing?” Twilight repeated in disbelief.

Wild held up his Sheikah Slate and took a picture. Then he walked over and showed Twilight the picture, “See?”

Sure enough according to the picture, Twilight’s brandings were glowing a gold color. With the glowing all around his eyes it made his eyes almost an eerie gray. Something similar happened when he was surrounded by twilight magic, but it never happened before with light magic.

“Well I’ll be damned,” Twilight murmured, unconsciously touching the markings under his eyes.

Wild studied his mentors face, “Don’t worry it looks to be dying down already,”

Warriors looked amused as he asked, “So Glow Stick, I assume we can camp here for the night?”

Twilight glared at the Captain as he answered, “Yes, Lanayru gave us permission to rest here. We won’t need a watch tonight, no monster ever gets close to Lanayru’s Spring since my journey ended,”

“Wait ‘since’? So there is a possibility?” Four asked.

“Well I suppose, but that was when Lanayru was weakened and the monster was a particularly strong one, boss level strong,” Twilight told Four nonchalantly.

“Alright, well let’s set up camp, and get some shut eye,” Time interrupted, clapping his hands.

Setting up the camp was a fast and easy task to do. Twilight, once the fire was set up, changed into a more dry set of clothes and set his gear out to dry. Twilight was grateful that he dropped his bag before he saved Hyrule from the water, and that Time remembered to grab it.

The rest of the night was filled with idle chatter and good food. Twilight was not looking forward to the conversation tomorrow. He was not going to let them come with him into the Twilight Zone. Getting turned into a ‘divine beast’ or something worse is not what he ever wants the others to deal with.

#linkeduniverse #ancestor's legacy #linked universe #lu hyrule #lu legend #lu time #lu twilight #lu warriors #lu wild #lu wind #linked universe fanfic #lu sky #lu four #lu fic #i forgot to upload this here

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