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madamewriterofwrongs · 3 years

Note

can i prompt: "Those things you said yesterday… Did you mean them?” for buddie? <33

Alicia! I meant to write something sweet and funny and instead, I wrote this. Regardless, I hope you enjoy <3

This, I Promise You

911/Buddie, 6k

“Eddie? Can you hear me?” Checking his best friend’s pulse, while constantly looking outside the grocery store window for the approaching ambulance, was not how he expected to spend his Thursday evening.

He had intended to take Eddie shopping for ingredients to make homemade spaghetti and meatballs. Instead, Buck had watched in horror as his partner collapsed in the dairy aisle, curling into his right side and only able to speak in pained groans.

Much later, he would feel grateful for his minimal medical training taking over his body while his mind swirled in panic but in the moment, the only thing that mattered was figuring out what was taking the ambulance so damn long.

“Just keep breathing, okay?” His fingers lightly brushed Eddie’s side and the man cried out louder, pulling Buck away from his work. He recoiled at the thought of hurting his friend in any way but there were so many other problems to deal with in the moment. What was happening to him? Where was the ambulance? What would he tell Christopher if Eddie died on his watch? The boy would never forgive him.

“Sir,” Buck jumped to his feet when a gloved hand touched his shoulder, watching from a panicked distance as the paramedics made their quick assessment that Eddie was safe to travel, and carefully lifted him onto the stretcher. All the while, Eddie continued his chorus of grunts and groans, fully-formed words having left his vocabulary entirely.

Buck opted to drive his jeep behind the ambulance (better to give them space to work, he reasoned), ignoring the selfish guilt in his stomach that somehow, he’d caused Eddie’s malady. He chose, instead, to focus his energy on calling Carla to bring Christopher to the hospital, then to inform Bobby of what little he knew, and finally, he called his sister. Second to his best friend, he needed someone to keep him calm with logic and a warm hug. Who better than the former nurse?

He would never tell Athena how he was nearly on par with the speeding ambulance on their way to the hospital, but he met them as they were wheeling him inside.

“Eddie?” He called to the man as he watched the pale form being wheeled past.

A nurse with a familiar stature to Maddie raised her hand to stop him with a firm tone. “Sir, you have to wait here.”

“But” he couldn’t leave Eddie alone now. What if something happened to him?

Again, the nurse stopped him. “If you give your and your friend’s information to the nurse over there, he’ll keep you updated, okay?” Her words were patient and gentle but left no room for argument. With one last glance at his friend disappearing behind the swinging doors, Buck turned towards the check-in desk. He was fully prepared to stand there until any new information came in, even if it took all night (which he sincerely hoped it didn’t).

That was exactly how Maddie found him when she hurried into the waiting area, operator’s uniform hidden under her sweater to accommodate the turning season. In fact, Buck wasn’t able to acknowledge her presence until two hands physically halted his mission to dig a trench in the hospital floor and he finally faced his sister.

“Any news on Eddie?”

She gently guided her brother to the nearest chair, only to press a hand into his leg when it began to shake with anxiety.

“Not yet. They took him back half an hour ago, why haven’t they figured out what’s wrong with him?”

“It could be such a simple diagnosis that they’re seeing to him right now.” Even if her words were just platitudes, they brought Buck a modicum of comfort to have another voice in his ear other than the one currently rambling about the worst-case scenarios. “What happened?”

“We were picking up groceries for dinner and he just collapsed.” Were he not in complete distress, he might have noticed the odd doubletake of his sister’s expression as his words set in. “He’s been hiding pain in his side for a few days, I thought he just pulled something at work and didn’t want to call out. Maddie, what if I didn’t say anything and now it’s only gotten worse?”

“Eddie’s a big boy,” she reminded him with no small amount of humor in her voice. “he can make his own decisions. If this is an untreated injury, then he’ll just have to deal with the consequences. But I have a feeling it’s nothing that serious.”

“That serious? Maddie, he collapsed in the grocery store. He was in so much pain, he couldn’t speak. How is that not serious?”

“By the way, since when did you and Eddie go grocery shopping together?” The blush in his cheek seemed to blossom instantaneously. “That’s very domestic of you.”

“Shut up.” Even Buck was unimpressed with his feeble attempt at indignation, too stressed to care much for appearances. “We were just picking up a few things so I could cook vegan spaghetti and meatballs for Christopher.”

“Where is Christopher?”

In all his pacing, Buck have never once forgotten about the little one’s imminent arrival. Facing the younger Diaz was the thing he seemed to be dreading the most in this entire ordeal. All the ways it could go wrong, all the ways he could fail that kid; it lingered in the air, refusing to offer a modicum of reprieve.

“Carla’s on her way with him. I really wanted an answer before they got here, though.” Having answers meant having hope and with hope on his side, maybe he could face those innocent grey eyes.

“I think you’re about to get it.” With Maddie’s assistance, he rose from his chair to face the approaching nurse he’d met earlier.

“Mr. Buckley.” He was too numb to feel her hand even as he shook it but he had a vague recollection of nodding in greeting. “You’re Mr. Diaz’s emergency contact, correct?” Again, he nodded as Maddie introduced herself to the other woman. “It’s a good thing you were with Mr. Diaz when he collapsed. It appears his appendix ruptured and if he had been alone, there could have been complications.”

All Buck heard was the crackling of static as the implications of her commendation sank in. “But, he’s okay, right?” She’d said it could have led to complications, that meant there weren’t any. Then where was Eddie?

“He will be. We’re prepping him for surgery as we speak but Mr. Diaz is heavily medicated, so we need your consent to move ahead.”

Wait, surgery? Surgery wasn’t safe. Surgery didn’t mean that everything was all right.

“Why-why does he need surgery?”

He saw more than felt Maddie’s hand on his arm. “They have to remove his appendix, Buck. It’s a very routine procedure, I promise.”

Of course, he trusted his sister, but that didn’t stop him from asking every question about the surgery that came to mind – even some he might consider irrational or fear-inducing under other circumstances. But these weren’t other circumstances. This was Eddie’s life. He needed to make sure his friend was safe above all else.

Thank goodness for Maddie, who gently pinched his bicep when he tried to ask for the credentials of the anesthesiologist, effectively drawing his attention to the impatient expression of the nurse before him.

“Sorry, yeah, you can go forward with the surgery.” He sheepishly signed his consent on the dotted line, even as his sister rolled her eyes at his hyperactive antics.

“Thank you, Mr. Buckley.” The other woman seemed to have the same expression on her face (though more professionally masked behind her clipboard. “Now, your friend has been very frantically asking for you so would you like to see him before we”

“Yes.” He cried with nearly too much enthusiasm, earning a startled jolt from the nurse who turned back towards the triage rooms without waiting for him. “Sorry, yes, I’m coming.”

Without looking back at Maddie, Buck pushed through the swinging doors Eddie had disappeared behind less than an hour earlier, his eyes immediately searching for his friend. Thankfully for the nurse’s sanity, Eddie’s room was the second on the left and already open for them to step through (lest she be forced to endure any more of Buck’s fidgeting demeanor.

The moment Buck’s eyes found Eddie’s, the room grew a degree brighter.

“Buck!” The firefighter cried. “You made it. I was worried you would miss it.”

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world, buddy.” Buck grinned on his way to Eddie’s side, careful to stay out of the way as the other attendants continued their preparation work, but standing as close as physically possible. “How are you feeling?”

In lieu of answering his question, Eddie stared unblinking at the man before him. “Your eyes are like the ocean.”

Ignoring the smirks from the staff around him, Buck shook his head with nothing but fondness in his smile. “I’m going to remind you that you said that once you’re sober enough to be embarrassed about it.”

“Thanks, Buck.” The sincerity in the other man’s voice was nearly comical. “You’re a really good friend, you know that?”

“After everything you’ve put me through today, I better be your best friend.” He congratulated himself on his ability to make light of one of the most stressful days of his life (disregarding the times when his own life was in peril). “And we’re going to have a serious talk about you hiding things from me, too, young man.”

At this, Eddie seemed to grow paler as his eyes grew innocently wide. “How did you know?”

“The nurse told me, dummy.” He resisted the urge to sweep a stray hair from his friend’s face, but promptly surrendered under the reasoning that this may be his only opportunity. “You can’t keep scaring me like this.”

It was almost precious to see the grown man shrink into the pillows with a doe-eyed apology in his red eyes. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to get hurt but I do it a lot, don’t I?” As Eddie fell into some sort of high contemplation, Buck gave one last glance over his friend’s features. Beyond a small reddening on the side of his face, he appeared to have no outward injuries from his fall. As for his insides – Buck hoped his unending questions were enough to sooth his anxiety but they hadn’t dissipated them completely.

“No more than the rest of us, Eddie. The doctor will fix you right up and you’ll be back at the station within a week.”

“Two.” He caught his new favourite nurse’s voice as she rolled her eyes.

“One and a half.” He countered, only to be met with another definitive expression (was that a part of their medical school training?). “Two it is.”

“What if I get hurt again?” Eddie’s voice cut through the light air and pulled Buck back to his side.

“Maybe the staff will give us some sort of discount if we come in so many times in a year.” On more than one occasion, Buck had jokingly tried to bargain with the accounting department about some sort of punch card – and the fact that he’d an opportunity to make his horrible joke several times had not escaped his notice. “You’ll be okay. Just like you always are.”

“But what happens if I’m not?” That doomful thought had also crossed his mind but he’d struggled to keep it at bay. And now Eddie was staring up at him and no matter his own fears, he couldn’t let that sadness and fear take up residence on his friend’s face for any longer.

“I promise, everything will be all right, okay? You’ll have this surgery and then you’ll never have to worry about your appendix ever again.”

“I know the mortality rates on an appendectomy, Buck, there’s still a chance.” Even high as a kite, Eddie was still so smart. He was quick on his feet and calm under pressure in a way Buck wished he could emulate.

The trouble was: Buck also knew the mortality rates (having grilled the nurse on all possible complications, no matter how outlandish). “I know the numbers too, Eddie. You’re more likely to die in a skiing accident.”

“I would hope so.” The man scoffed.

Buck made a mental note to renew his statistics knowledge so he could win the next argument.

“I promise you’ll be fine.”

When Eddie grabbed his wrist, he was thankful his heart wasn’t the one being monitored. “Buck, I need you to make a serious promise to me.”

Even without the urgency in his friend’s voice, the firefighter would have agreed to anything. “Of course.”

“If anything happens to me, I need you to look after Christopher for me.” Before he could open his mouth to protest, Eddie continued. “He looks up to you and I know you’ll do everything you can to look after him.” Nothing that the man said was new information for Buck and yet every word sliced through the sudden fog around his mind with sudden clarity. “And don’t let my parents bully you into taking him back to Texas. He belongs here with you, okay?” When Buck didn’t answer right away, Eddie squeezed his wrist tighter. “Promise me?”

“I promise, Eddie.”

Logically, he knew that he shouldn’t be taking any of Eddie’s demands at face value, as he was under heavy pain medication and anesthetics. He had no control over what he was saying and yet it all rang true to the Eddie he knew – if a little more slurred and enthusiastic.

“You really are such a good friend, you know that?” As the man continued his speech, the attendants began to hook his stretcher to be wheeled into the hallway. Buck followed steadfast behind the group as he listened intently. “I don’t know what I would have done without you all these years. You’re kind and loyal and smart and beautiful. If I was going to marry someone again, I’d want to marry you. You’re amazing, don’t ever forget that.”

As the doors opened to where Buck could no longer follow, Eddie called out: “Buck, I love you.”

Before the words could fully register amidst the other ramblings, the surgery doors had closed and Buck was left in an empty hallway that echoed with every unspoken word suddenly flooding to the surface. What had Eddie meant by that? Why had he said it at all? He couldn’t wait however long the surgery took before he got his answers.

“Wait!” He feebly called to the door, knowing even in that moment, he couldn’t cross over just to question a man most likely unconscious from the drugs by this point. What was he meant to do with his hands? Did his legs function on their own without him consciously moving one foot and then the other? Was he currently breathing? The air was too stale to take a reasonable breath, he needed space in order for his mind to spiral properly.

“Buck? What did Eddie say?” When had he returned to the waiting area to face Maddie? How did she know that Eddie had said anything? Right; Eddie had been asking for him.

“He, uh, he asked me to look after Christopher.”

Buck passed by his sister’s nodding head on his way to the exit doors, hoping the late afternoon air would provide some much-needed clarity from his overwhelming mental journey. The world outside the hospital walls was a creamy orange as the thinnest traces of the setting sun began to pierce the sky. A soft breeze blew just enough to remind him that the world still turned despite the numbness in his fingers.

Before his legs could attempt to buckle from underneath him, he found a small concrete wall surrounding some barely tended shrubbery and let himself collapse against it. His head fell naturally into his hands as he reminded himself to take one deep breath and then another. Another breath came and again and again until he felt the ground beneath his feet and the denim against his elbows and the sweat in his hair once again.

Eddie’s in surgery now.

Eddie’s in surgery and he asked you to look after Christopher if anything happened to him.

Eddie’s in surgery and he said he loved you.

Eddie was also incredibly high on medication and wasn’t acting entirely himself despite the similarities in his speech. They weren’t things he’d even imagine his friend to say out loud, but he knew them to be true.

Except for the part where he said he loved you.

Admittedly, that was the part that stuck with him. More than his faux deathbed confession to care for his son, more than his ramblings about Buck’s qualities. The simple admission that his feelings for the man went beyond friendship, threatened to bring back the swirling mind and tingling fingertips.

Eddie will be okay and then you can talk to him about it once he’s recovered.

Or you could just never talk about it and see if he forgets.

Do you want him to forget about it?

What do you want to say back?

“Eddie’s going to be okay.” Buck snapped to attention, looking at his sudden companion with a smile that seemed to grow of its own accord.

“I know, Carla. It’s a common procedure and he’s come back from worse.” Of course, worse had been getting shot in Afghanistan, but this was nothing compared to the trials he’d endured there. In terms of Eddie’s canon of injures, this particular incident was hardly worth noting.

With the exception of one, distinct, admission.

“Then what’s got that pretty face all screwed up?”

He opened his mouth to tell his friend the same thing he’d told Maddie, only to catch the thing missing in his life just in time. “Where’s Christopher?”

“Inside with your sister. She asked me to check on you.” There were many reasons Buck could name as to why he loved his sister, and he added another to his list. “So, if it’s not Eddie, what is it?”

Without needed words exchanged between them, Buck shuffled over to allow room for his friend to sit beside him. Perhaps there was another solution to his dilemma that he’d never considered before.

“It is Eddie but it’s not about the surgery. Well it is about the surgery but not the” Buck took a deep breath to steady his rambling mind and it marginally worked. “I’m not worried about his physical health.” His mental health, perhaps. How can he love me?

“What did he tell you?” The confusion must have been evident on his face because Carla supplied the answer. “Maddie said you went in to see Eddie and when you came back you looked like you were going hurl – her words, not mine.” He smiled at that. “What did Eddie say to you that got you so twisted?”

Four words. Not large for a statement but grand in stature and bewilderingly unsettling.

“He told me he loved me.”

“Oh.” Carla blinked in surprise, but he saw no disgust or apprehension, which he knew would be absent from the woman who’d known them both for the entirety of their friendship. Of the people in his Los Angeles family, she was the only person he might consider to be closer to Eddie simply because she had a different relationship with the man. There was something about Carla that had always put him at ease, and one night spent lying awake and missing the home he’d left behind many years ago, he realized the thing he loved about Carla was also the thing he loved about Eddie: no matter their dynamic or status, there was trust and respect and kindness. She might call it ‘being damn good at her job’ but Buck hadn’t called Carla all those years ago because she was the best in-home care worker he’d even known (not that he’d known too many in his time), he’d called because he trusted her with something important that he couldn’t do on his own.

Perhaps he could trust her again.

“I just wasn’t expecting him to say it when he was being wheeled into the operating room.”

“But you were expecting him to say it?”

He opened his mouth to protest, cursing his own subconscious, but a gently impatient look from the woman next to him silenced those thoughts. “I think maybe I was but I didn’t realize until it happened. Like, I’ve never thought about Eddie as anything other than my…” Suddenly, calling him his ‘friend’ didn’t seem like enough. “Eddie.”

“Well your Eddie just laid his cards on the table, it seems.” He had the horrifying realization that he would never escape that particular tease for some time. “So what are you going to do about it?”

Buck had been asking that very question since Carla found him and yet he still hadn’t come up with an answer. “What if he didn’t mean it? Or what if he meant it as a friend? Or what if he forgets? Or what if he didn’t mean to say it now and he’s not ready?”

“Honey, I’m going to say something I don’t think you hear enough.” She placed a firm hand on his shoulder to ground him into silence. “Stop thinking so much and just do something.”

Buck had, in fact, never heard that command uttered in the context of himself before in his entire life. If anything, he’d spent most of his career being constantly reminded to do the exact opposite. He knew reminding her of that would only earn him an eye roll and maybe a light smack on the arm, but she cut him off before he could consider if it would be worth it.

“I’m serious. Don’t think for one second and just tell me the first thing that comes to mind.

Run.

“Do you love Eddie?”

“Yes.”

“Do you want to be with him?”

“Yes.”

Something warm and heavy settled in the front of his chest, spreading across his sternum like a blanket. Freedom, he realized, freedom and hope and contentment. He wasn’t as afraid of those words as he probably should have been.

“Would Eddie ever intentionally hurt you?”

“Never.”

More truth spilled from his lips as Carla questioned him and the warmth spread into his shoulders and curled down his back.

“Would he ever lie in order to lead you on, or in any way hurt you?”

“No.”

“Do you want him to have meant it?”

“Yes.”

“If the two of you were together, what’s the worst that could happen?”

“We break up and I have to change stations and he never lets me see Christopher again.”

“What’s the best thing that could happen?”

“Everything.”

Upon his confession, he saw the same surprise on Carla’s face that she’d worn earlier: no judgement or hint at foreknowledge. Pure, quiet, realization.

“Oh you love him, love him.” He hadn’t realized it until she’d said it out loud – and part of him felt ridiculous for connecting with such a childish explanation – but it was as true as anything else he’d said in the safety of their stone wall. “You can’t keep that thing bottled inside. If there’s even a chance that he feels the same, you have to go for it.”

Easier said than done. “But what if”

“No buts, Evan Buckley.” He shut his mouth at her command. “When that boy is out of surgery, you are going to tell him that you love him, too. Do you understand me?” It was almost surreal to think of such a tender moment being turned into a threat, but he nodded with panicked fervor. “Good. And no talking yourself out of it between now and then, either. You’re telling that boy tonight or I will drag you into his hospital room and lock the door until you do. Although you’re more than welcome to lock the door yourself once you’ve made your confession. No pulling his stitches, though.”

Buck had no idea his skin to blush that shade of red, but as images of all the reasons he might need to lock him and Eddie inside a room for privacy tumbled through his mind, he felt his entire body boil over from the heat.

“Carla!” He admonished with a smirk.

“Honey, if I looked half as good as either of you, I wouldn’t have been able to hold out as long as you both have. Honestly, your resistance is impressive.” He would never tire of her honest commentary (she hadn’t been the first to notice Eddie’s quote ‘perfect bone structure’, but she was the first to say it out loud).

“And I think you’ve both earned a little happiness, don’t you?” That same honesty could hit him with just as much depth. Her talent was startling.

“Yeah, I’d like that.”

“Damn right, you would.” She bumped his shoulder to pull a smile from within his nervous, terrified, hopeful body. “Now, are you going to be okay for the next few hours or do I need to bring your sister out here to give you another pep talk?”

Oh god, how would he explain this to Maddie without being mercilessly teased at their wedding reception? Slow your roll, there, Buckley (his inner thoughts sounded strangely like Bobby). Get through the night and see if you both make it to a first date. “I think I’ll be okay.”

And after saying it so many times in his life, Buck meant it in a rare burst of honesty that settled in his bones. Granted, he was still terrified out of his mind – because telling someone that they make the sun shine brighter for the very first time was never an easy task – but no matter the outcome, he knew he would be okay.

“Thanks, Carla.”

“Thank me by inviting me to the wedding.” As if she weren’t already near the top of his guest list.

It was to Eddie’s great shame that waking up in the hospital following his emergency appendectomy felt painless. The first time he’d opened his eyes completely, two very patient nurses had asked his questions while examining him with clinical precision. It was nothing he hadn’t experienced over and over in his time. The second time he’d opened his eyes, there were no nurses or questions; in fact, from the light outside the window in the open hallway, he would guess it to be early in the morning (despite the distinct lack of change inside the building. He had, unfortunately grown accustomed to opening his eyes to the harsh overhead lighting and constant yet distant noise of the machines. The post-pain-med-hangover was a distant memory, and the only sign that anything in his life had changed was a slight soreness in his side where he’d no doubt have another scar to add to his ever-growing collection.

That, and the hand squeezing his as he returned to consciousness. But feeling Buck by his side was not a sign that anything had changed. If anything, it was confirmation that he had returned to the land of the living.

He would save his questions of how he knew Buck’s hand from anyone else’s for another time. Or perhaps never (though if he were honest with himself, the concept of ‘never’ hurt his heart worse than the idea of ‘not you’). Right now, he focused on looking at the eyes which owned the hand massaging his knuckle just below the heart monitor attached to his finger. If he focused on his breathing, maybe the machine wouldn’t pick up on the way his heart skipped a beat when he saw Buck’s smiling face.

“Hey Bu-”

“I love you.”

There was no mistaking the sudden drop and double count on the monitor, but all Eddie could hear were Buck’s words repeating over and over in some sort of recursive loop.

Maybe he was still dreaming.

“What?”

He missed their connection, but the way his partner shot up and began slowly pacing the length of his bed was more concerning. “I was going to lead up to it but then I saw your face, and Carla told me that if I didn’t tell you when you woke up, she would lock me in here and I panicked a little.” His explanation was only mildly helping Eddie’s nerves, but he accepted what little context was provided. Something about Carla.

Okay, so he needed more information.

“Carla made you say that?” But why? Was this some sort of pity confession, or fear for his safety? She had been encouraging him to start dating again but coercing his best friend was a bit much.

“Yes. No.” Buck stopped and restarted his pacing every time his train of thought shifted tracks and frankly, Eddie wasn’t nearly awake enough to understanding what was going on.

“Buck, sit down, okay? Tell me from the beginning.”

As easily as though he’d made his own decision, Buck obeyed Eddie’s command and flopped into the seat – though he didn’t retake his friend’s hand, a fact from which Eddie attempted to hide his disappointment. With a long breath, Buck began his speech while Eddie watched his changing expressions with increasing awe.

“I don’t know how much you remember about yesterday or what you said before you went into surgery. I know you were pretty out of it from the pain meds and anesthesia but you said some things.”

Oh god, Eddie prayed for more anesthesia so he could go back to sleep and wake up in a world where he hadn’t embarrassed himself. He had no idea what those things were that he’d apparently said to Buck but from his demeanor the instant Eddie laid eyes on him, he knew it must have been something big.

“You asked me to look after Christopher if anything happened to you.”

Oh? That wasn’t too bad. “I meant that. I trust you.” If that was all he’d said, there was nothing to be worried about. He would have asked that of Buck regardless. It just made sense at this point. “Just promise you wouldn’t let my parents bully you into taking him back to Texas, okay? His home is here, now.”

Buck’s blush was awfully adorable in the sharp, white light (perhaps not all of the medication had worn off). “You, uh, you told me that, too.”

“Okay good, I mean it. We can make it official if you want? Sign the paperwork and everything.” He should take a look at his will anyways. He hadn’t had a chance to adjust it since before Shannon’s death and some things had definitely changed. Was that why Buck looked so anxious: he didn’t know how to ask Eddie for guardianship? That was an easy fix. So far, nothing had come up to explain what had prompted the sudden confession or Carla’s involvement.

“We could?”

“Of course.” He shrugged, careful of his wiring and newly acquired stitching. “I told you: there’s no one I trust more with my son than you.” He’d meant it then and, if anything, that belief had only grown with time.

“What about your heart?”

The one currently alerting the nurse’s station that it was beating uncontrollably? That heart?

“What about it?”

“Do you trust me with your heart more than anyone?”

“Buck, wha-”

“You also said,” Buck seemed to be powering through now, regardless of anything Eddie wanted to say. “You also said that if you were going to marry anyone else, it would be me.” Oh god. “And you said that you love me.” Oh god. “Did you mean it?” Oh. God.

The truth of it was that Eddie didn’t remember anything between experiencing a pain in his side as they walked into the grocery store and waking up to the two nurses hovering over him. He’d guessed it was a problem with his appendix but like many unpleasant things, he’d put off making an appointment too long and it had apparently come to bite him in the ass in the worst (and most expensive) way possible.

And on top of that, his subconscious mind was punishing him by letting slip the confession he’d been rolling around on his tongue for months.

Great.

He’d realized he was in love with Buck one night when they had been on an endless shift with too many calls involving high stakes and stupid people. He was beyond exhausted and frustrated, and every emotion seemed to take up residence in his shoulder muscles. Finally, they’d been freed to go home to their loved ones, except because of the late hour, his loved one was sleeping over with his friends. So, Eddie had no one to go home to – a fact which he had resigned himself to long ago – when he felt a familiar hand clap his back and, with a simple nod of his head, Buck invited him over for pizza and video games. And just like that: Eddie wasn’t alone any more. And just like that: Eddie realized he loved Buck.

For months, he’d wrestled over the depth of his emotions for the man currently watching his every expression. Was it just a crush born out of proximity? Was it a physical attraction coupled with a close friendship which would mean a less than successful romantic relationship? Was it loneliness and desperation? Was it a forever kind of love? Did it have to be in order to mean something important?

It had taken time, but eventually Eddie had come to the conclusion that Buck was more than a fling and worth more than mere physical attraction (though the man had been making frequent visits to his dreams of late and many of them involved the need to wash his sheets in the morning).

He was beginning to contemplate the notion of possibly thinking about telling Buck how he felt, when his appendix decided to do it for him. And now here was Buck, looking him in the eyes – those eyes that were like the ocean in a storm – to ask him if he’d meant it when he’d said that he loved him, despite not remembering making that very significant confession.

And on top of that: Buck’s first words in response to that very significant confession, was to tell Eddie that he loved him. Because of Carla. Somehow.

“Why did Carla make you say…what you said?” Dare he get his hopes up? Dare he allow himself to believe that the things Buck said were said in earnest?

“She didn’t make me say it, I wanted to say it, but she told me if I chickened out when you woke up, she would lock me in here until I did.” If anyone asked him the colour of the sky, he would have no earthly idea what the sky even was. The only thought that existed in his mind were five words.

“You wanted to say it?”

Buck’s cheeks really did turn a lovely shade of pink when he was flustered. “Yeah, Eddie, I wanted to say it. And I wanted to hear you say it. Just not when you were being wheeled into surgery.”

“It wasn’t how I planned on saying it, either.” He muttered his confession despite barely regaining consciousness from losing all other thought.

“But you meant it?”

Buck reiterated the question Eddie had yet to answer because it felt like reaching a door that would disappear once opened. But wasn’t that the real question: did he want to open the door?

“Yes.”

The smile on his partner’s face was warm enough to soothe the cool remnants of their parted hands, and Eddie felt his own expression soften and expand from just the sight of the other man’s joy.

“Good.” Buck whispered. “I love you, too. By the way.”

If laughter didn’t threaten to pull his stitches, he would have joined in the bubbling happiness that filled the room. Instead, he resigned himself to watching the man he loved – the man who loved him back – relax into their shared knowledge that things would be all right between them.

Not that he ever truly worried. Things with Buck weren’t always easy but they always found that world again: one where they were both too frightened to speak their hearts and minds, but the universe brought them together anyways.

Grocery store appendectomies were decidedly not on his list of ways to confess his love. He wouldn’t have it any other way.

#cj writes things #911 fox #911 fic #buddie #buddie fic #evan buckley #eddie diaz #carla price #love confession #anestesia #gracieli #love alicia

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pedros-mustache-main · 4 years

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when your love reaches me (ii)

summary: 1978 is decidedly not 2020. nor is your life ever the same when you meet a guitarist, curly haired, soft spoken, and true.

word count: 8.5k+ (once again, i got carried away)

warnings: screwed up historical timeline, suggestive moments (not 18+ but be mindful), language, innuendo, slight angst; truly, this chapter is mostly fluff which is surprising coming from me and probably explains why it was so hard to write :)

a/n: thank! you! for such a lovely response to the first part of this mini-series! truly means a lot. :) also: mega shoutout to @deacyblues who really helped me with this one; she’s the mvp of this chapter! this one is formatted a little differently than the first and the last part (which for some reason i’m ~nervous~ about), so let me know what you think. xoxo!

part i

in this chapter: snapshots of what life is like on the road alongside the one you love.

october, 1978—new orleans

as much as it can be, life is bliss.

you’ve been on the road for days, slept on a bus more than in a proper bed, survived the flagrant display of hedonism in new orleans, argued with brian about how long he hogs the bathroom in the morning, and barely eaten anything of substance, but still you’re happy.

he makes you happy. you make him happy. that’s all that matters.

you’re on the bus, headed for the airport. the next leg of the tour is florida—two nights there—then two nights on the east coast—maryland and connecticut. it’s late, nearing midnight, and the bus hums down the highway at a consistent and comfortable speed. for the most part, it’s quiet. there’s a soft conversation somewhere at the front of the bus; you think it’s gerry, yet again going over the schedule, but you could be wrong. flashes of light stream through the windows as you pass under street lamps, and you curl a little closer into brian’s side. he shifts in his sleep, mumbling under his breath.

he’s tired. they all are. it’s only been a few days, but after the party in new orleans and with the waning energy after the initial concerts, the boys are settling—settling into tour life and the long nights and early mornings. life on the road isn’t easy, and you don’t blame them for catching whatever sleep they can when they can.

you’re settling too. it’s been nearly two months since you left home. you’d thought you’d be more desperate than you are. sometimes, you see a trinket in a shop window or hear anna say something that reminds you of your baby sister. other times, crystal will make a joke that reminds you of your brother. in those moments, you miss home more than anything in the world. but then brian will walk by, headed for the stage, and trail his fingers across your shoulders in a silent moment of affection, and you’re happy where you are.

so long as you’re with him, you’re happy.

brian’s eyelids flutter open when the driver skips over a pothole. he groans, rubbing at his temples. “fuck,” he breathes.

you push yourself off his chest, enough to meet his gaze. “feeling okay?”

he peeks through his fingers. “i think i got run over by a train.”

“well, that’s what freddie’s parties will do to you.” you poke his ribs, grinning. “you’re lucky you lot have a few days off to recover.”

“trust me,” he says plainly. “it was built into the schedule.” for a moment, his eyes scan your face. one long finger comes up to brush your cheek. “how’d you manage to get out unscathed?”

you shrug and resist the urge to lean into his touch. you can’t tell him the truth. he wouldn’t understand if you explain that your grandmother once read you an article about “saturday night in sodom” and the night freddie mercury almost broke louisiana. instead you twirl a lock of his hair around your index finger and say, “i’m good at moderation.”

leaning back against the headrest, his arm circles your waist, squeezing at the flesh below your hip. “remind me to get a few tips next time.” he closes his eyes, his lips parting as he falls back asleep. you smile, snuggle against him, and pinch yourself.

nope—still not dreaming. thank heaven.

november, 1978—detroit

by the time you reach michigan, the rhythm of the tour is set. everyone has their role to play, and each part is played to perfection. your part is slightly more fluid than most, but, alongside anna and john’s wife veronica, you manage to find your way most of the time.

it can be awkward, though. you have no musical talent, no ability to haul or set up lighting rigs. really, your role is very clear: you’re around to keep brian entertained and as relaxed as possible. whatever he needs, you do it—even if that means letting him muss your hair or mark your skin too much during a lengthy drum solo.

at first, you can’t stand knowing everyone else knows when you’ve had a quick shag in the stairwell or showed up late to sound check because brian got too handsy in the lift on the way out of the hotel. you’ve never been so open about a relationship before, least of all the physical aspect of it. you like to keep private things private, but that doesn’t work so well when you live hotel to hotel with the same thirty people. any bit of juicy gossip can fuel the band and the roadies for days on end. they’re worse than a group of church-going busy-bodies.

but that was a week ago, and you know better than most that much can change in the span of a week. brian’s lingering kisses or the quickes in a broom closet don’t make you nervous anymore. you don’t care if you get caught because lord knows roger and anna or veronica and deaky or any number of the crew are doing the same a hallway over. it’s all a part of the thrill of being with him, loving him (you refuse acknowledge it—the love—even to yourself; it’s too soon to love him, though you know you do).

on the first night of the two gigs in detroit, you catch brian in the hallway before he goes out on stage. you’d stepped out to grab a bottle of water and nearly missed him in the process, but when he sees you, he lights up with a smile. he pauses. roger quips for brian to make it quick as he rushes after john, drumsticks in hand.

“go get ‘em, tiger,” you say, slugging his shoulder with your fist lightly.

he catches your arm and lifts your hand to kiss the bone of your wrist. god, he makes you melt. “you gonna come watch from the side?” he mumbles against your skin. he’s looking at you through his dark lashes, thoroughly enjoying the way you squirm from side to side.

you nod and untangle your hand from his grasp. “eventually, yeah. crystal said he wants to show me the view from up top.”

brian rolls his eyes with a good-natured huff. “watch out for that crystal. he’s trouble.”

“sorry—what was that, mate?” crystal, rushing down the ramp toward one of the dressing rooms, pauses behind brian. “did you say i’m trouble?”

brian glances over his shoulder. “would you deny it?”

crystal hesitates, runs a hand over his beard. “no, but i don’t think my contract includes taking slag from my boss.”

shaking his head, brian laughs and heads up the ramp toward the stage. you call after him, and he turns as he continues walking, red special over his back, eyes wide and expectant. lifting the camera that’s perpetually around your neck with one hand, you blow him a kiss with the other. the camera captures his reaction: a wide grin, flushed cheeks, legs mid-stride. he disappears around the corner, and the hallway fills with the sound of cheers and applause when queen finally takes the stage.

you meet crystal’s eyes and wait for him to say something. you don’t have to wait long.

“you two are disgusting.”

“you know, if you had actually brought me my drink at the disco, we might not be here.”

“to think i could have been saved the horror of having to go to bed each night scrubbing my brain of all your disgusting happiness.”

reaching out, you touch crystal’s elbow and pout your lower lip. “oh, crystal, are you lonely? do i need to find you a friend?”

he scoffs and twists to shake the hand on his elbow. “please,” he drawls. “i’ve got no issue there.”

you stick out your tongue, and he moves down the hallway, but you follow close at his heels. “so, will you really show me the view from the scaffolding?”

“aren’t you afraid of heights?”

“absolutely, but i want to see it anyway. ratty said it was the best seat in the house.”

it takes a modicum of more effort to convince him—you have to promise to buy him a bowl of ice-cream next time the group goes out—but eventually he gives in. after leading you through a maze of wires and boxes, he climbs the lighting rig suspended over roger’s drumset. you hesitate at the ladder. you are afraid of heights, but you based on the way ratty went on and on about how “fuckin’ amazing” the show is from above, you’d like to think you can put your fears aside for the experience. palms sweaty, you wipe them across your jeans then scramble up the ladder. crystal sits on the narrow walkway, laughing, legs dangling over roger’s head. he pats the spot beside him, and you shuffle closer.

“what do you think?” he asks, spreading his arms toward the view.

once you’re settled and able to calm your racing heart, you look out over the stage. your breath catches in your throat. “ratty was right—for once,” you whisper.

you can see everything from here. most of the time, when you’re confined to the wings, you can barely see brian or barely see deaky. you never see roger, and you can rarely see the audience. from the scaffolding, you can see it all: freddie strutting across the stage, roger pounding the drums, deaky bopping in a tight circle, brian tearing into the guitar. from this angle you catch the way they work as a well-oiled machine, perfectly in-tune with one another. you can see the audience, too, and the way their faces shine with joy. the crowd looks like the sea, the way it moves up and down and side to side with the time of the music. it gives you a whole new appreciation for the roadies, too, and the way they work tirelessly to make this happen, often without proper thanks.

crystal nudges you with his shoulder. “take a picture,” he says. “to remember.”

you don’t have to be told twice. you raise the camera, peer through the viewfinder, careful to get your feet and crystal’s in the frame, and snap a shot. when you pull back, you see brian looking up at you from below, and you hope you got him in the frame, too.

november, 1978—philadelphia

“[y/n]! get over here!”

at the sound of ratty’s frantic voice, you pause in the stairwell and look over your shoulder. he’s hunched over a smoking amp, waving toward crystal and another roadie—phil, you think. when he catches your eye, he points to the spot beside him. you’ve never seen him so alarmed and, as much as you want to get away from backstage and find a couch to nap on, you hurry to his side.

“what is it?”

“the fucking amp broke! deaky’s muted and so’s brian.”

you cringe. “his amp’s gone bad, too?”

“no! something else. i don’t fucking know. he just needs this wire.” ratty shoves a wire in your hand. it hangs loosely in your palm, and you get the feeling you know what he’s going to ask next. “you gotta go give it to him.”

you shake your head, mouth gone suddenly dry. “ratty, you have to be joking.”

he straightens. “do i look like i’m joking, [y/n]?”

he looks, truthfully, like he’s on the verge of tears. but you don’t say that. you just grimace and mutter, “please don’t make me do it.”

“sorry, gotta be done. just make it quick!” he takes a hold of your shoulders and pushes you out of the safety of the wings before wheeling around on his heel at the sound of crystal calling his name.

legs frozen, you stand just to the right of deaky, still partially obscured by the walls of the wings. deaky continues to play, despite the fact that no one can hear him. you can almost see the steam coming out of his ears. he looks to the left and the right, searching for someone—anyone—to come and solve the issue. when he looks to his right, he sees you and his face relaxes for the briefest of seconds. he shuffles closer.

“is that for me?” he asks, nodding to the wire in your hand.

“no, sorry! it’s for brian. he’s got issues, too.”

“fuck! this is a fucking shitshow!” he cocks his head toward the other side of the stage. “go give it to him then!”

you realize belatedly as you run across the stage that you’re not wearing shoes. your socks slide against the slick floor, but you manage to stay upright, your vision tunneled on brian. you try not to think of the hundreds of thousands of eyes watching your every move, wondering who on earth you are and why you’ve taken to the stage like an invader.

roger and freddie are still going, riffing off one another to keep the energy high. they’ve started some sort of call-and-response game with the audience, so when you make it to brian’s side, you have to shout to be heard.

“ratty told me to give you this!”

brian’s angry, in rare form. his jaw is clenched tight, his temples throbbing. he looks ready to burst, and you wince when he grabs the wire from your hand. “for fuck’s sake, [y/n]! what is going on tonight?” he rips a wire from his guitar and replaces it with the new one.

you can only offer him a paltry shrug. “couldn’t tell you.”

fiddling with an amp behind his back, he gives his guitar a few experimental strums. sound blasts through the amps, and you resist the urge to lift your hands and cover your ears. relief surges through your veins; you give him a thumbs up. at the same moment, deaky plucks at his bass, which fills the stadium with its deep tones.

oh thank heaven. you did not want to be in the greenroom after the show if everything hadn’t gotten fixed.

before you can turn to leave, brian grabs the back of your neck and kisses you hard. your cheeks feel like they’re on fire, well-aware of the way the audience cheers as the touch lingers. you pull away first.

“thank you,” he whispers. he gives your rump a solid tap as you turn to make a beeline for the wings.

you think you’ll curl up and die when you rush past freddie and he says into the microphone, “ay, that’s brian’s girl!” he grabs your wrist and crushes you against his side, and you have the wherewithal to laugh even though you really want to stamp on his foot and run away. “she’s our little savior tonight, huh? a good luck charm!”

you finesse your way back to the wings, your skin hot with embarrassment, and flip ratty the bird as you make your way to the greenroom.

november, 1978—st. louis

there’s a show on thanksgiving day—sold out, much to everyone’s surprise—but after the concert, you gather around a long table in the hotel conference room. the carpet beneath your shoes is a pale purple, the table flimsy, the chairs uncomfortable plastic. someone’s laid a brilliant white tablecloth with a traditional thanksgiving meal, and the smell of roasted turkey and sweet potatoes and stuffing warms any of the cold still lingering on your body. you sit, squeezed between brian and crystal, across from anna, who winks at you as she lifts her cup to receive a helping of red wine.

“i’m fuckin’ famished.” crystal doesn’t wait for everyone to be seated or gerry to say a few words of toast. he grabs the basket of rolls and hands you one.

rolling your eyes, you take it and place it on the side of your plate. it’s the hotel’s china, a cream with mint trim. “you could wait and try to pretend like you have good table manners.”

beside you, brian snickers into his cup—a mug, really—of wine. his arm is slung over the back of your chair, his fingers circling lazily on your shoulder. you shift in your seat to lean into his touch.

crystal pulls a face. for a moment, you think you’re staring into the face of your elder brother. that’s exactly something marcus would have done. your gut clenches, and you have to look away, reach for brian’s knee, before you begin to cry. how long’s it been? three months? you miss the sound of your mother’s voice, the way your father worries after you in your flat. you miss it all; you always will.

“excuse me, excuse me. i’d like to say a few words.” gerry stands at the head of the table, tapping his fork against his cup. lingering conversations fade as everyone turns to face gerry. “not one for speeches,” he starts.

“then sit down!” it’s john, from the end of the table, who interrupts. veronica elbows him hard, and he doubles over in a combination of a laugh and a wheeze.

gerry smiles through tight lips. “thank you, veronica. as i was saying, i’m not one for speeches, but i think tonight’s as good as any to tell you how happy i am to be a part of this. we’ve got a hell of a lot more to do, but i’m thankful for what we’ve accomplished so far. anyway, that was shite, but it’s how i feel. eat up. happy thanksgiving.”

there’s a chorus of happy thanksgiving and glass clinking against class. you sip at your wine and smile to yourself. you’d thought of what it would be like to celebrate thanksgiving before, but never imagined it would be like this. you wouldn’t have it any other way. not with roger slingshotting a green bean across the table or freddie grilling dennis about what type of butter he used for the mashed potatoes.

you fill your plate, thankful, among other things, for the chance to eat a full meal alongside your new family. there’s a deep satisfaction in your chest. though there’s some part of you that still feels ridiculous wearing checkered trousers and dark turtlenecks, you think you feel more at home here than anywhere else.

“[y/n]?”

lifting a bite of cranberry sauce to your mouth, you turn your head to meet brian’s eyes. he’s leaned forward, his chin dipped. beneath the table, his fingers settle on your thigh, and he squeezes gently. you quirk an eyebrow as you chew, waiting for him to speak.

“i’m glad you’re here.”

you swallow, put your fork down, press the hand that’s on your thigh, smile. “i’m glad i’m here too.”

something stiff and slimy hits your forehead. you jostle in your seat with a gasp. a green bean lands in your lap, and you look up, eyes wide. across the table, anna’s laughing behind her hand, roger grinning widely.

“roger!”

he shrugs. “sorry, love, couldn’t help it. perfect target!”

“if i didn’t respect all the hard work poor dennis put into this meal, i’d shove your face in that bowl of potatoes,” you warn, pointing to the bowl of starch in question.

roger frowns, though his eyes sparkle with mischief. “brian, control your woman! she just threatened me!”

brian, wisely, lifts his hands in surrender, leaning back in his chair. “oy, she can handle herself, mate. don’t drag me into this.”

from his place beside roger, freddie slaps a hand on the table. “no fighting at my thanksgiving or i’ll kick you all out and eat by myself!”

“would you all please shut up and pass me the turkey?” crystal leans into your arm space, reaching in vain for the plate of meat just out of his grasp.

rising, you hand him the plate and cross to the front of the table. you clap your hands together to grab everyone’s attention then place your hands on gerry’s shoulders.

“i think you all know what time it is,” you say, grinning as a few of the roadies groan and duck their heads. you lift your camera. “squeeze in and look pretty.”

heart clenching as you look through the viewfinder at the collection of people you hold so dear, you snap your picture and sit down. without hesitation, brian takes your hand in his, and you sit together, hand in hand, for the rest of the meal.

december, 1978—london

you would be lying if you say you aren’t surprised when brian invites you to his parent’s home for the holidays. the tour has a month long break now that the american leg is over. once it starts up again in january, they’ll be off, gallivanting over continental europe. truthfully, you’d assumed you wouldn’t go back on the tour. you’d assumed you’d continue to crash on anna’s couch, make a few extra dollars at the diner, maybe look into enrolling in a few classes come spring.

you’d assumed the fairytale would be over.

there’s nothing official between you and brian. sure, you love him to bits. when you wake up in the morning, roll over, and see his sleepy eyes already looking at you, you know that for the rest of your life you will never feel for someone the way you feel for him. if he asked you to stay with him forever, you would. if he asked you to marry him, you would. you’ve known him for only a handful of months, but, fuck, he owns you. time doesn’t seem to matter when love’s involved. still, he’s never really put a label on what you are. not that he needs to; you’re just as fine without one. but with the break and then the touring starting up again, you’d just thought that would be it. he’d find another tagalong because lord know he’s could have his pick of the litter.

but he seems genuinely offended when he asks you to come home for christmas and you confess, “oh! i thought that you wouldn’t want me now.” the words sort of fall out of your mouth in a tumble, before you can really consider what you’re saying, and your hastiness shows because his forehead creases in a deep frown.

“why would you ever think that?” he asks it in the middle of the airport baggage claim, with the crew and band milling about, waiting for their luggage. it’s quiet, some ungodly hour in the morning, so you wince when he speaks a tad too loud for your liking.

“i just thought that...” you shrug and look away when his frown deepens. “don’t look at me like that, brian.”

“like what? pissed?” he scoffs. “i’m pissed ‘cause you know how i feel about you, [y/n]. at least i thought you did.”

you’re saved having to make a response by freddie dropping the last of your bags at your feet. he kisses your cheek, wishes you a happy christmas, and asks you take a dramatic photo of him leaving the airport, headed out for a night on the town all by his lonesome because his friends won’t join him in the fun. you oblige, though your heart isn’t in it because brian radiates frustration at your side and you’re jetlagged. you just want to go to sleep, really. it’ll be better in the morning.

after wishing well to the rest of the group, you follow brian out into the cold. it’s frigid, and a gentle snow has begun to fall, glittering in the harsh lamplight. you stamp your feet to try and generate some warmth in your legs as you wait on the curb for the cab. the tension between you grows thicker with each passing moment, but you can’t find the words to say.

in all honesty, you figured he looks at you as nothing more than a good time. and that’s okay with you because it makes things less complicated. you aren’t sure what you will do if he actually wants you, wants you for good. because it’s always in the back of your mind—how you don’t belong here, how you don’t belong with him—and if he feels something more than a general liking for your kisses or your ass or your tits, you don’t know what that will mean for your future. it scares you. so you say nothing, and he says nothing.

the cab pulls up the side of the road, and the trunk pops open with a soft whoosh. the driver hops out, rambles something about how big of a fan he is and how brian is such an inspiration, and you can’t help but roll your eyes as you lug your bag to the trunk and dump it in unceremoniously. you slide into the backseat of the car, cross your arms over your chest, and sulk. brian follows suit, sulk and all, seconds behind you.

the driver either ignores the tension in the backseat or is oblivious because when he takes the driver’s seat and turns to ask you both where you’re headed, he’s all smiles and flushed cheeks.

brian doesn’t answer. neither do you.

the driver’s smile begins to fade as the moments pass by.

“you really didn’t realize that i love you?”

you suck in a sharp breath at brian’s confession, eyes darting to his, which bore so deep into your soul you wonder if he can see into the very depths of your heart. you wonder if he can see the way you’re at war with yourself. there’s part of you that wants to jump his skinny bones and forget everything you left behind; that part is dangerously close to breaking through the surface. but you care for him enough to shake your head in an honest answer. he sighs.

“well, i do.”

“oh,” you whisper, turning your face to your lap. “sorry.”

there’s an edge to his voice when he speaks again, and it makes you squirm. “that’s it? just sorry?”

you force yourself to meet his eyes. it’s hard to make out exactly what he looks like in the dim lighting of the cab, but you know he’s not happy. “i didn’t want to assume anything,” you admit. “this is all terribly out of character for me.”

“what is?”

you know he won’t give the driver an address until you speak the truth, so you close your eyes and grit your teeth. “all of it—you, queen, the tour. i have absolutely no idea what i’m doing or how i’m supposed to act.”

“you’re supposed to act like yourself, [y/n]. that’s what i love: you, not what you think you’re supposed to be.”

swallowing hard, your eyes slide back to him. his shoulders have dropped from their tense hunch, and the lines in his forehead have smoothed. he looks more tired now than anything else.

“if i’m being honest,” he continues. “i think i’ve loved you since you called crystal out on the tour bus that first night.”

you smirk, remembering the way you thought he’d turned to glance back at your after your outburst. lip caught between your teeth, you shift in your place to face him better.

“if i’m being honest,” you say. “i think i’ve loved you since i stepped on your stupid clog in that disco.”

he doesn’t laugh like you thought he would. his eyes just dart back and forth between yours for a moment before his hand slides across the bench to skim your splayed fingers.

“so, christmas at mine?”

you nod, chest soaring when he scoots closer, his warmth invading your cold bubble. “christmas at yours.”

december, 1978—london

freddie throws a new year’s eve party, and you all but have to drag brian to it. all he wants to do is stay home and fiddle with the telescope his father got him for christmas, but all you want to do is go to freddie’s party with the man you love and kiss him as the clock strikes midnight. you end up cutting a deal: you’ll both go to the party but leave right after midnight so he can catch what’s left of the night sky.

as you dress in a decidedly not-winter-appropriate outfit, you tease and tell him he’s such a grandpa. he just pushes his hips against your backside, pushing you into the bathroom counter, and you gasp at the feeling of his desire pressed against your leg. you have to brace your hands on the countertop when he leans over your shoulder and nips at your ear, muttering, “don’t think grandpas get riled up like this, love.”

now at the party, leaning against the wall with a flute of champagne in your hand, half-listening to veronica’s story about john attempting to cut his own hair, you can’t stop ogling brian from across the room.

he stands beside roger and some business executive from the record label. he’s wearing the suit jacket you like: it’s black with white pinstripes. it’s buttoned halfway up his chest, but, as is customary, the crisp white dress shirt beneath his jacket is barely buttoned at all. you can make out the outline of his sternum, a silver necklace dangling against his skin. his trousers are dark and tapered along his narrow waist and legs. he looks good enough to eat, and you still hum with the electricity he’d shot through you back in the cramped bathroom at his parent’s home.

mumbling an half-hearted apology to veronica, you set your empty champagne flute on the marble mantlepiece and cross the floor with purposeful steps. it’s rare you get like this—so worked up you might explode—but with the recent revelation of his feelings for you and the way he stands there, so nonchalantly beautiful, you think you might burst if you don’t do something.

sidling up beside brian, you curl your arm around his elbow and smile at the men with whom he’s in conversation. roger grins right back, like he can read your mind and knows what you’re up to; the business executive’s eyes falter a moment too long on your chest, but that’s fine because at least it means you look good. you can work that to your advantage.

“mind if i steal him for a moment?” you ask, already tugging at brian’s wrist, question dripping with sugar and honey.

the business man’s eyes flick up from your cleavage to your face. “well, we weren’t exactly—”

“go ahead, love.” roger waves you off with a wink. “i can finish up with mack.”

mouthing a thank you to roger, you curl your hand around brian’s and pull him down the crowded hallway to a small coat closet. there’s heavy jackets and fur-lined coats strewn about the room, bags and purses and briefcases too. it smells slightly musty despite it being the largest coat closet you’ve ever occupied. you don’t waste a moment. with one hand, you shove the door closed and with the other you grab the lapel of his jacket and pull his mouth down for a bruising kiss.

brian laughs against your teeth, his hands skimming around your waist to settle in the small of your back. “what on earth’s gotten into you?”

you shake your head. the strap of your dress, thin as it is, falls down your shoulder as you trip over your own feet in an effort to perch yourself on the single bench in the room. “nothing,” you huff. “just want you ‘s all.”

he helps you with the stubborn zipper that runs along your spine, his mouth working on your throat, still chuckling. “i can work with that.”

january, 1979—berlin

anna studies you from across the room, one leg dangling over the other. she picks at her nails while she stares, her eyes narrowed in thought. you let her inspect you for a few moments, but her stare soon becomes too much to handle. her eyes are heavy and intense, so you slam your book shut.

“what?” there’s an edge on your voice, but she doesn’t take notice, just shrugs.

“do you think you’ll get married? you and brian?”

with a sigh, you toss your book to the coffee table and swing your legs to the carpet. “that’s a ridiculous question.”

“no it’s not!” anna’s eyes follow you as you pad across the floor to grab an apple from the buffet along the wall. “it’s obvious you love each other.”

leaning against the table, you bite into your apple. music from the stage filters through the air vents, attempting to drown out the thoughts swirling through your head. you might let it, too, but anna’s question pricks at the girlish ideas of marriage you’d buried so long ago.

“me and roger,” she continues. “i know we won’t get married. he’s an epic shag and almost too much fun, but i don’t love him. i mean, i do, but not the way you love brian. and he definitely doesn’t love me the way brian loves you.”

you arch a brow. “i didn’t realize everyone had so many opinions about my relationship.”

“sure we do. crystal’s started a pool on when brian will actually pop the question. my money’s in the spring. i think i picked april fifteenth. we’ll be in tokyo then and they’ve got gorgeous cherry blossoms. can you imagine how romantic that’d be?”

you do imagine it for a moment—him bending down to one knee, cherry blossom trees swaying with a gentle breeze, your hand clasped in his, finger weighed down by an engagement ring. you fiddle with your ring finger, feel the emptiness there, and wonder what it would be like to actually, truly marry him. you’d say yes, if he asked, but that would also mean giving up any lingering hope of returning to your natural life, wouldn’t it? you still aren’t sure if you can do that.

besides, you know he isn’t going to ask. there’s no reason for him to. he loves you; you love him. that’s it; that’s all it needs to be.

february, 1979—zurich

you’re walking hand in hand along a quaint street in zurich’s city center. the air is cold, but brian’s hand is warm, and you feel impossibly safe by his side. not for the first time, you have to pinch yourself. before leaving home you’d rarely traveled and never extensively, but in the six months you’ve been away, you’ve seen more of the world than you ever dared dream you would—and it’s all because of him.

you slide your hand from his palm to the crease of his elbow and lean against his side. he glances down at you and moves his arm around your shoulders. he smells like laundry detergent and roger’s cigarette smoke. the scent makes your head dizzy with affection, so you have to ask him to repeat himself when he speaks.

“how much film have you used up? for your camera?” he asks again, drawing you out of the path of a jogger.

you tally the sacred tubes tucked neatly in your suitcase. “four canisters so far.”

he smiles, clearly proud of himself. “i guess i did pretty well with that gift, then.”

rolling your eyes, you poke his side, but the grin on your face is secure. “don’t flatter yourself. i don’t want your ego getting too big.” looking away from his pretty face, flushed with chill and sparkling with amusement, your steps falter. “oh, that’s nice!”

you say it before you can stop yourself, but the jewelry displayed in the window of a small accessories shop truly is nice. there’s a wide array of necklaces, bracelets, and rings sparkling in the overhead light. just the sight of a diamond ring makes your heart flutter, and you think back to your conversation with anna in berlin. you pull your eyes away from the wedding bands and focus on the necklaces.

brian steps behind you, circles his arms around your stomach, and settles his head on your chin. “do you want something?” his breath tickles your ear, and you immediately shake your head.

“no, just looking.”

he squeezes you against his body in protest. “come on. let me get you something.”

“brian, it’s too much.”

“it is not! you haven’t let me get you anything this whole time!”

you turn around in his arms and plant your hands on his lean chest. “i don’t need anything. you’re present enough as it is.”

he huffs. “that’s shite. we’re going in there and we’re not leaving till you pick out something you want.”

in the end, you choose a necklace with a pearl set against a fanned-out silver flower. it’s dainty, light against your collarbones, but it reminds you of brian. pearls are formed out of grit and determination, just like he is. it’s a silly metaphor, but when you see the necklace for the first time, that’s what springs to mind. you don’t tell him as much. you just let him pay the shop woman and hook the necklace around your neck.

later, when you’re lounged around the hotel lobby, waiting for the boys to finish changing from the show so you can go to dinner, crystal points to the necklace.

“new bling?”

you touch the pearl with your fingers and nod. “he insisted.” you level him a pointed stare. “i heard you’ve got a bet going on as to when brian will ask me to marry him.”

crystal has the decency to blush, and he swings his legs over the arm of his chair so he can sit straight. “yeah, well, we gotta do something to keep entertained.”

“i want in.”

he laughs, loud and echoey in the sparse lobby. “what?”

“you heard me: i want in.”

“you think he’s gonna ask?”

you shrug. “maybe. a girl can dream.”

shifting, crystal unearths a square notebook from his back pocket. he reaches for a discarded pen on the glass coffee table at his feet and puts the cap in his mouth while he flips through the pages of his notebook. “what day you want?”

“what day’s not taken?”

“uh... march first. we’re in paris then.”

“fine. put me down for march first.”

crystal pencils your name in and opens his palm. “it’s forty pounds to enter.”

you startle forward, sputtering, “forty pounds?!”

“you’re getting in pretty late, sweetheart! take it while you can.”

“how much do i stand to win?”

he calculates slowly, mumbling, “forty times twenty-eight... about five thousand.”

you scoff, shaking your head. “i don’t know whether i should be offended or impressed.” withdrawing your pocketbook, you slap the forty pounds in his palm.

he curls his fist around the money and shoves it in his pocket. “thank you and good luck.” he winks as the boys round the corner from the elevators, talking quietly amongst themselves.

brian comes to stand behind your chair, his hands on your shoulders. he glances between you and crystal. “what’s going on? you look like you’re up to no good.”

rising from your seat, you grasp his wrist and kiss the back of his hand. “oh nothing. crystal was just brushing me up on my maths skills.”

buzzing with giddiness, shocked at yourself but not unpleased, you grin wider when you hear crystal whisper to freddie, “she took march first” on your way to the car and freddie says, “dammit it! i got february twenty-eighth. he likes the first of the month.”

february, 1979—madrid

you stare at the calendar tacked to the dressing room wall. it’s your birthday.

you didn’t expect to feel so sad. freddie’s planned a party for this evening, something outrageous and ostentatious, and you’ve been anticipating it all week, but now that the day is here, you don’t feel excited or thankful or even the slightest bit happy. you just feel empty.

if you were home, where nature intended you to be, you’d likely have woken up to a flurry of happy birthday text messages. your roommate rachel might’ve made you breakfast in bed, and you’d have gone to dinner with your family before returning home to open presents. it would have been simple, easy and uninspired, but just the way you like it.

this morning you’d woken to brian pressing a kiss to your temple as he rushed out of the room, already late for a day set aside for brainstorming the new album. he couldn’t help the schedule; that’s just the way it fell. so you’d gotten ready by yourself, eaten by yourself at the hotel’s cafe, read by yourself on your room’s terrace. crystal had shouted his well-wishes on his way out of the hotel by the time soundcheck rolled around; anna had brought you a muffin as you slid into the car beside her. you knew you would celebrate later as freddie had promised, but that didn’t stop the ache, the yearning, in your chest for something more familiar. now standing in brian’s dressing room, alone and in silence, it takes everything you have in you to not break down and sob.

you miss home. you miss your parents. you miss your brother and sister. you miss your phone and your keurig that takes too long to pour and your subscription to netflix. as much as you love brian, you miss where you belong, the time in which you belong.

you don’t realize you’re crying until the door opens with a click, and brian steps in. he’s halfway through a sentence about wanting to find something to eat before the show starts when he sees your tears and stops talking. rushing to your side, he takes your shoulders in his large hands and bends to catch your eyes.

“[y/n]? what is it? what’s wrong?” he sounds worried, painfully so. this must be the first time he’s seen you cry in such earnest. sure, he’s seen you shed a few tears on occasion—when you’re irritable and he’s being stubborn; when roger and crystal’s antics make you double-over in laughter; when he does something particularly endearing—but he’s never seen you like this.

you wrap your arms around your stomach and shake your head, tears flowing all the more. you wish you could unburden yourself and tell him the truth. he deserves that. but you can’t answer his questions. you don’t know what’s brought you here or why, and he’ll probably only think you’re crazy. you think you’re crazy.

he stops asking you what’s wrong and leads you to the couch. the faux-leather squeaks as he sits, drawing you to his lap, your head cradled beneath his chin. he rubs soothing circles up and down your back, humming, until you’ve settled enough to blow your nose and wipe what little makeup remains from your eyes.

you exhale, sitting upright in his lap. he has one arm draped over your hips, the other still working along your spine. you can feel his eyes searching your profile, as if he’s trying to discern the cause of your turmoil from the patterns on your skin.

you don’t say anything. you just twist and press your mouth to his.

god, you love him. it’s not the fact that he’s brian may and that’s he opened up a world previously unknown to you. it’s him: his height which makes you feel safe, his hands which love you so well, his intelligence which dazzles you day after day, his kindness, his vulnerability with others, his wit. you love everything about him and more.

but you don’t belong here. the thought has been plaguing you since you arrived, and you suspect it will haunt you until nature returns you home—if nature returns you home. you are meant for the days of roaming wifi and overpriced coffees on every street corner. you are meant for skinny jeans and simple eye makeup, youtube and internet shopping.

you miss it all, but you love him so dearly—would marry him, and have his children, and die by his side if he asked—but you don’t belong here.

your mouth moves rough across his as you straddle his hips, hands clawing at the hair around his shoulders. you’re crying again. you can taste your tears, salty and warm, and you wonder if he tastes them too. he kisses you despite the tears or maybe because of them. whatever; it doesn’t matter. you just want to forget, to feel good, to feel him.

pulling back, you breathe heavy, chest brushing against his. his eyelids are heavy with lust, his throat flushed. he lifts a hands, brushes his palm down the side of your face, his thumb swiping out to wipe away a tear.

“what do you want?” he asks.

you take the moment to memorize his face, every line, freckle, and marking. you run a finger long his lower lip and whisper, “you.”

he frowns. “you have me.”

a lump rises in your throat, and you push it back before meeting his gaze. “always?” you aren’t sure what you mean by always. your head is so muddled, so torn, it likely doesn’t matter what you really mean. just as long as he answers the way you want him to.

he does.

“always,” he says, and you sigh in relief before kissing him again.

march, 1979—paris

march first, the day you picked in crystal’s proposal bet.

it’s drizzling, but you insist brian accompany you to the louvre on your last afternoon in france. together, you race to the museum, hair damp and frizzy, laughing as you check your coats and grab maps of the exhibits. you wind your way from room to room, commenting on the masterpieces hanging along the walls. brian listens as you spout the wealth of useless knowledge you’ve stored in your head for a later date. he asks questions; he nods and hums in approval; his hand rests in the curve of your back.

by the time you reach liberty leading the people, you’re sure he’s as bored of hearing your voice you are. you pause, study the painting, and sigh in contentment. the room is quiet, only an older couple in the far corner, standing side by side. the man is much taller than his wife, like brian’s taller than you. the woman leans into her husband’s touch when he presses her shoulder, and you wonder absentmindedly if you will experience old age alongside brian.

“i want to give you something.” brian breaks the silence with a voice that is on the edge of trembling.

you look up at him, brow furrowed. “you know i don’t like when you give me things.”

“i think you’ll like this.” he gasps his right hand and twists at the ring on his pinky. as you watch his movements, shaky and unpracticed, your heart stops in your chest.

oh my god.

the words thrum through your veins like a mantra. the air in your throat goes cold, your eyes glued to his hands. you think you might faint when he grasps your left wrist and places the ring in your palm. mouth open, you stare at it: it’s silver with a flat face, small and plain. there’s something engraved on the smooth circle and, after you blink your tears away, you see it’s a flower with three drooping bell-shaped buds.

he notices your inspection and nods to the ring. “it’s lily of the valley, supposedly may’s flower of the month, or so my mother has always believed. you saw our house. she’s obsessed.”

you swallow past the moisture gathering in your throat and look up, unable to form a sentence. he shoves his hands deep in his pockets and shrugs.

“it’s not so much of a proposal as it is a promise.”

“a promise?” is all you can manage to squeak.

“i want to marry you one day,” he says matter-of-factly, like it’s the simplest thing in the world, like it’s what he was born to do. “but you know how things are right now. we’re busy and money’s tight and—”

“okay,” you breathe.

his brow puckers. “what?”

“i said okay. i’ll marry you—one day.”

his lips spread in the most heartbreakingly beautiful smile, and you know for a fact that you are doomed: doomed to love him forever and always, until you’re both dead and buried and the world continues to turn even though you’re gone.

“well, mr. may, are you gonna make me put it on myself?” you wiggle your hand and pass him the ring which he dutifully slides on your middle finger.

still holding your hand in his, he leans down to kiss your forehead. “i’ll put a proper ring on your finger one day,” he mumbles against your skin, clasping the back of your head to his lips. “promise.”

as you stand in the middle of the louvre, held in the arms of the man you love, you remember: you’re five thousand pounds richer now. you won the bet. the thought makes you laugh and hug him all the tighter.

april, 1979—toyko

if you had known nature would choose that day make her mistake right, you likely wouldn’t have gone back to your hotel room for your sunglasses.

but you didn’t know, and it was painfully sunny outside.

freddie suggests the group takes a walk around toyko to enjoy the sights and the last of the cherry blossoms before the evening’s soundcheck. though you’re tired from a late flight, you aren’t going to turn down an afternoon of simplicity, not when the tour is so close to finishing and you might never experience this feeling of family again. you’re walking with crystal out of the hotel, bag slung over your shoulder, camera around your neck, arguing with him about whether or not the clouds in the distance mean rain. he says yes; you say no.

“it’ll just pass over us,” you say, shielding your eyes from the sun. “it’s too bright to storm.”

“clearly you’ve never been to japan before.” he pauses when you stop walking, turning to look over his shoulder while you backtrack toward the entrance.

“i’m gonna pop back inside for my sunglasses anyway. i’d rather have them.” you wave your hand. “don’t wait for me. i’ll catch up. tell brian i’ll be there in a minute.”

he shrugs and pops a toothpick in his mouth. “you know freddie’s a fast walker so be quick.”

nodding, you turn fully on your heel and rush back into the building. the lift is too slow, so you take the stairs two at a time. by the time you reach the door to your room and finesse the key into the stubborn lock, it’s raining. you groan, thumbing your nose at the rain-stained window, but grab the sunglasses anyway before racing down the stairs.

your camera bangs against your chest, your bag slapping against your hip. the stairwell is cool concrete, and the sound of your shoes echoes on the stairs as you wind down the floors.

thunder booms overheard, and you gasp, stalling on the steps. it sounds close. maybe you should have grabbed your umbrella...

reaching the bottom of the stairs, you pull the door to the lobby open and stumble into an empty concert hall, all too familiar and entirely unwelcome.

your heart plummets to your stomach.

“oh fuck.”

~*~*~*

taglist: @bhmay @grigorlee @teenagepeterpan @just-my-sickly-pride @perriwiinkle @ubernoxa @anunknownnebula @coincidence-ithinknots-blog @captvinswaan @ineloqueent

#brian may #brian may fic #queen #queen fic #j writes #brian may x reader

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beyondstupidityblog · 3 years

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On March 13th 2021, two friends and I did what never could have imagined possible, I watched Freddy Got Fingered for the ninth time, and it will by no means be the last. I’m explaining this to you, dear reader, so you and I have an important understanding between us. You will be reading the ramblings of one whose brain has curdled like milk left out in the hot afternoon sun. Now that introductions are out of the way, let us begin.

Freddy Got Fingered is a 2001 Comedy starring and directed by Tom Green as the Non-Titular Gordon Brody; an aspiring animator who goes to California to realize his dream, only to be constantly crushed under the weight of his father’s expectations. Sounds tame at first, but what lies beneath the veneer of mediocrity is truly impressive. Completely bombed, audiences hated it, and critics loathed it. Roger Ebert got angry, saying “it isn’t even below the bottom of the barrel” and “Green should be flipping burgers somewhere.”. “Tasteless”, “appalling”, “offensive”, “gross”, and “poo poo,” are just some of the things people have had to say about this film. Animal genitalia can be seen on screen for much longer than anyone could have expected, Tom Green swinging a baby akin to a morning-star with its umbilical cord, said umbilical cord being stolen and taped onto his stomach, gratuitous caning of a nymphomaniac paraplegic, and the dissection of a deer carcass. It is an abrasive experience that leaves a terrible taste in the mouths of those who mention it. Nonetheless, I love this movie.

You ever see a contemporary art exhibit that has a piece that just looks like garbage somebody left out but in actuality is a tongue-and-cheek allusion to the pitiful state of modern art? That garbage is Freddy Got Fingered, and that exhibit is Hollywood. At face value it just seems like a poorly done film by a comedian trying to use his name to get a few butts in the seats before his irrelevancy arrives, but when scrutinized as a commentary of comedy films do the pieces start to fall into place. Tropes like the Protagonist being an unremarkable honkey, gross-out designed to get some cheap quick chuckles, side-characters who occupy the space solely for comedic relief, a shoe-horned romantic side-plot, and an equally as shoehorned in happy ending are all present in a mocking fashion. So many of these Hollywood schlockfests that this movie is paying homage to abuse tropes in some vain attempt to trick the audience into thinking they’re having a good time, when in reality it just reminds viewers of films that they’ve already watched before and could be enjoying instead. All of the awkward and uncomfortable scenes of gross-out and romance are purposeful, because nothing is quite as awkward and uncomfortable than a film disengaging the audience with its own mediocrity. “This is what it’s like to endure this trash!” Drunkenly screams Freddy Got Fingered atop the tallest piece of furniture in the room, while also exposing its genitals to keep you from getting too comfortable around it. Unlike the films it is parodying, its obsession with making a fool out of audiences rips them away from the comfort of the cinema, making them genuinely ask if it is worth wasting their time watching a film called Freddy Got Fingered. Even the title is an intentional slight, as it seems to be completely untethered to the actual plotline and is instead a reference to a seemingly inconsequential scene. But then again, that is the point of it all. Tom Green is an artist, and on his canvas is a portrait of Hollywood with all of the ugly little imperfections that cause a movie like this to be created. But this is just the meta-narrative of Freddy Got Fingered, something that you could find all over the internet. Why do I resonate with it so much, and what about it makes it so exceptional that led to this unhealthy fascination?

Every instance that I’ve rewatched Freddy Got Fingered has always brought about a new side to it, and in the process leaves me craving for more. Gord is an interesting take on the average leading man. He is on the surface bland and inoffensive, made so in order to allow the majority of the audience to immediately identify with him, said group being 20-something skater guys with unrealistic expectations of themselves. Made especially ironic when after the introduction of Gord as an adept skateboarding rebel escaping from authority, he starts to show that in reality he is an unlikeable, bratty, entitled, and all around unpleasant person. Barely a scene passes before we see him masturbate a horse while exclaiming he is a farmer to his father who is not present, seemingly a crude gag but is in reality an insight into his low self worth caused by his imposter syndrome stemming from distant paternal relationship. I would like to remind you, dear reader, that I am still writing of Freddy Got Fingered, in case you were beginning to think I have lost my mind (The answer is yes by the way). All throughout the film Gordon Brody puts on masks for different situations, never allowing himself to be who he is. When infiltrating the Animation studio where he wishes to pitch his cartoons, he pretends to be a mailman to get past reception and then impersonates a police officer when the former stops being effective. Donning the visage of a British Bobby, he dashes into the restaurant where the man he is searching for, Mr. Wallace, is eating. Showing him his cartoons, Wallace is impressed with the potential they have, but says that they are incoherent and lack real substance. Upon rejection, Gord puts a pistol in his mouth before Wallace stops him and advises what he should do to improve. Gord was genuinely ready to blow his brains out the back of his skull if he wasn’t able to get his show greenlit, and it hit me in that moment that he isn’t just some random jackass, but a victim of detrimentally low self-esteem.

The origins of his complex are made apparent when he goes back home to Oregon and are reintroduced to his Family. We see that his father Jim, played by Rip Torn, is disappointed in his return and begins to sneer at him for his failure. This father and son dynamic always has tension in every scene from this point onwards. Gord, who just wants to be accepted for who he is and not judged by what the world expects him to be, is always at the receiving end of Jim’s wrath, who values his idea of a successful life over the happiness of his sons. From here it becomes little wonder why Gord is the way he is, all his life he was told that who he was is not good enough, he has to be what his father wants if he is to be considered worthy of not only love, but being treated with a modicum of dignity. Whenever Gord acts eccentric or divulges his interests to his father, they are met with either resentment supplemented by verbal assault, or physical violence. After a late-night skateboard outing to escape from his father’s wrath goes awry, he visits his convalescing friend in the hospital, whereupon he meets one of the more interesting characters in relation to Gord, the love interest Betty.

A horny wheelchair bound temptress may not seem like it upon first glance, but Betty is actually the most interesting character out of the entire cast. She feels genuine, introduced as a bored receptionist flipping a coffee creamer idly. Gord immediately strikes up a conversation, whereupon he and the audience find out she has an interest in physics, and apparently an interest in him as well. Betty is strangely well written for what most considered at the time to be a crass sexual joke, so much so that she would actually be a better protagonist than him. She is everything Gord is not, she’s smart, funny, ambitious, and kind to a fault. Even her side plot to create a rocket powered wheelchair makes for a much more unique plot than the one given. Even Gord reciprocates this sentiment in their meeting, lying that he is a stockbroker in an attempt to impress her. In fact, sectioning her off as just the dull protagonist's love interest is a jab at how women in these movies are only there to serve in the development for the male protagonist, just nothing more than their muse. Nonetheless, without this relationship the movie would lose a lot of its soul. Romantic chemistry in comedy films is always hit or miss, but Gord and Betty do seem to have it surprisingly. They’re both silly and impulsive, creatively driven to a fault, but just different enough to eek out the best and worst in them. Gord thinks that what he wants to do with his life is wasteful, but Betty doesn’t. Now I don’t mean that she directly affirms that he is worthwhile like most poorly written love interests would, stroking their lover’s(and by extension the director’s) ego, rather she confronts him with her optimism. He asks if she would feel stupid and like a loser if her experiment failed. Taken aback at first, she questions why she would, relaying that her failures are just as important as her successes. Gord’s self-worth is directly tied to his ability to succeed, whereas Betty doesn’t need this affirmation. Their dialogue further cements how detrimental his father’s overbearingness was to his outlook, and how he is slowly beginning to realize how destructive that mindset is.

At their dinner date, Jim sees Gord and Betty across the restaurant, then reveals that Gord was lying to both him and her about his office job while poking fun at her disability, leading to a father-son scuffle that throws the entire floor into utter chaos. Cops show up, Gord and Jim are detained, and Betty bails Gord out. Most mediocre comedies at this point would have the love interest be upset that her significant other lied to her, leading to him having to make things right to repair their relationship before the happy ending. Breaking the mold, Betty does not get angry with Gord even a smidgen, choosing to be understanding of his situation now that she caught a glimpse into his home-life. She just plain likes Gord, willing to put up with him more than she really should, but still chooses to look past his lies and self-destructive nature for who he truly is, someone who just wants to be accepted by the world around him. Someone just like her.

Right after that enaction of social terrorism performed by the Brody father and son duo, they decide it would be best to go to family therapy and assail the audience with what I fondly refer to it as, “The Scene.” “The Scene” is Freddy Got Fingered’s statement to the world, it is what instills a man with the impetus to rewatch a glorified stoner daydream for the ninth time and leave him wanting more! Gord accuses his father, in a final act of defiance, of molesting his younger brother Freddy. During the ensuing confusion Gord picks up a bust of Sigmund Freud and throws it into the glass window pane, allowing him to escape into the evening sun. The authorities take Freddy away and send him to The Home for Molested Children, and the family slowly unravels from then on. Besides the heavy handed metaphor of Freud’s theories being used as a way for Gord to escape his predicament while simultaneously discrediting them, “The Scene” also recontextualizes Freddy, innocuous of a character as he is, as Gord’s foil. He is in the movie very little but when he is it is to serve one of two purposes: To be compared to Gord, or to be treated as an object. During breakfast much earlier in the film after a fight between Gord and Jim, Freddy tries to explain to his brother that he should grow up. Gord, surprisingly, talks down to him and halts the conversation.

Gord: “He's driving me insane.”

Freddy: “No. No, you're driving him insane. You're older than me and you still live at home. I have a job, you know. I pay my own way.”

Gord: “You work in a bank. Should I be dazzled?”

Freddy: “Well, at least I don't live at home!”

Gord: “No, you live in a tiny shithole and you come here to eat for free.”

With these lines it is plain to see that despite Freddy’s idea of success directly lining up with his father’s, he is even more pitiful than Gord. What little we know of him is to show that his acquiescence to his father’s expectations has left him bereft of not only genuine personal success, but of dignity itself. When child protective services come to take him away, he is half naked, mouth agape, watching open heart surgery on television, a palpable indication of emptiness. He isn’t treated as an adult either, as his protests to the police fall on deaf ears as both them and the psychologist infantilize him. Why would Tom Green name this movie after a character like Freddy, whose lack of presence and characterization make him little more than an afterthought when looking back on the story? Or did I just answer my own question? Freddy is not a character because he is not allowed to be one, he is just too passive and accepting of his circumstances for him to stand out. All he can be is a doll that Jim uses to dress up as the perfect son, and this passiveness leads to Gord, the “failure,” to both pity and resent what he let himself become. That’s why Gord accuses their father of molesting him, after all he does narratively violate Freddy’s autonomy by consistently making decisions for him. Evidently enough, as soon as Gord dons a suit for a quick bit Jim is elated because he believes that his son finally gave in to his demands for him to get a job, because he is acting more like his obedient brother. In this sense Freddy is the most tragic member of the Brody clan, a literal manchild whose growth was stunted by overbearing guardians. When I think of him, a bonsai tree comes to mind. Sure, it looks healthy, but when you realize that it could have grown into a much bigger plant if it were not for its small pot, that realization of wasted potential comes with a tinge of melancholy.

I want to end this essay with a moral that I took away from Freddy Got Fingered, as strange enough as that sounds, and what it has to say about art as a whole. Put simply, this is a story about revenge. Despite and because of his Father’s harsh ways, Gord managed to take from the trauma he sustained throughout his life and sublimated it into his animation. Creation not only lets him heal, but also acts as retaliation against Jim once he becomes successful. So long as you have the drive to prove everyone’s doubts and admonishments wrong by persevering out of wicked spite, you will have the last laugh. Freddy Got Fingered is a story about revenge through artistic expression, and I think that is quite beautiful.

#freddy got fingered #tom green #movies #essay paper #comedy

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fleckcmscott · 3 years

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After

Summary: Arthur is heartened to have Y/N back by his side. But moving forward isn't as simple as he'd daydreamed.

Warnings: Adult situations, Swearing

Words: 3,391

A/N: This request comes from @jokerownsmysoul! It's a continuation of Ch. 23 of Watch What Happens and takes off right after the last paragraph. Funnily enough, when Karen originally beta'd that chapter she said, "Where's their conversation? Oh, well, I guess it's implied." 😄 Special thanks to Domino, aka @thegirlwho, (who also wanted their conversation 😂) for sharing her point of view and helping me see things from a different perspective.

A good portion of my life is the exploding head emoji right now, so it's been a while since I've posted. However, I'm still here. Still writing. Still trying. Work on the new multi-chapter continues. If you've got any requests, let me know. Your patience, support, and you mean a lot to me. Thank you.

Nimble fingers twined through his loose, brown curls, a gentle tug as lips met and parted, met and parted. Her body surrounding that soft, most intimate part of him was visceral. Warm and wet. "I love you" fell from her mouth. Once, twice, more than the walls of his apartment had ever heard. He swallowed but was unable to murmur an appropriate reply. She came back, his mind affirmed. She came back.

Shit, I haven't mopped for a week.

Arthur braced himself on his knees and elbows to look down at her. The notched collar of Y/N's blouse had somehow remained uncrumpled. Strands of her hair fanned out messily over the beige, aged hexagons of the kitchen linoleum. Her tears had reduced to stains on her flushed cheeks. He brushed them away with the back of his knuckles. She'd said he hadn't hurt her, that she was happy. Both good things. If he could figure out the next step...

His eyes flitted back and forth between hers, brows pinched. Moving to kneel, he tucked himself back into his briefs, pulled his light blue pajama bottoms over his rear, then ran his hands along his thighs. "Have you had dinner?"

Buoyant laughter left her as she propped herself on her forearms. "I'm famished. Especially after that." She extended her hand and he accepted it gladly. When she started to pull herself up, he grabbed the other. Her kitten-heels slid the weave rug along the floor; it took some effort for her to get her footing. Once she stood, she tied the drawstring of his pants and adjusted her skirt. "Be right back," she said and scurried to the bathroom.

The thud of the door closing cleared the awe from head. He'd rather have kept it. Changes in mood were typical as of late. The bliss of her return was already twisting into dread. No longer consumed by the need to be inside her, his mind conjured questions, too many to brush off. He turned the knob of the toaster over. Studied the orange glow of its heating element. Had charity - or worse, pity - caused her return? Had distress afflicted her as deeply as it had him? Had she thought of him half as much as he'd thought of her?

Was she going to abandon him again?

He suddenly felt very silly and quite small for allowing himself a modicum of relief. Nothing had been clarified. By having a quickie on the floor after they'd barely exchanged a word, he'd set himself up to be hurt. The way he had when he'd kissed Helen, or when he'd considered Randall his friend, or when he'd believed, for one foolish minute, that Murray might be kind. He flinched against the fury simmering in his stomach. That same panic and anger from when Y/N had walked out of his apartment and, he'd been convinced, his life. He clutched the counter's curved edge so hard his fingertips went numb.

But then she curled herself into his side and squeezed him tight about the waist. Her blithe bearing was almost enough to quiet his tumult. "Anything I can help with?"

"No." He moved to dig through the freezer. Beans and franks with a brownie. English style fish 'n' chips. His mother's favorite, meatloaf. Only the teal packaging made them appealing. He grimaced at the meager offerings. He snatched one from the door, held it out with some trepidation. It was possible the gel-like gravy, slices of turkey roll, and drowned stuffing wouldn't put Y/N off. "Um, this was on sale. I bought a few."

"It's perfect." She accepted the carton and tore it open. "I heard a song on the radio yesterday that made me think of you."

"Oh yeah?" He closed the door of the toaster and set the timer with a flick of the wrist.

"The man was singing that his name was Carnival. That's your clown name, right?" She chuckled, dragged the black, wooden stool from under the counter, and perched on it. "It reminded me of the subway." A flirty pinch to his abdomen. "And that I still have to see one of your performances."

Arthur scoffed and averted his gaze, struggled to push through his anxiety and enjoy her. But he wasn't the type of man to let questions lie. When he'd gotten the courage to ask Y/N on a date, he'd taken the risk. When he'd read Penny's letter, he'd hopped on the first train to Wayne Manor. After the confrontation in Wayne Hall, he'd gone to Arkham and stolen that wretched file.

His curiosity tended to pick wounds that hadn't yet healed over.

The warmth of her hand met his back. "Thank you for giving me time."

The tenderness of her tone loosened the clench of his jaw. But he still couldn't bring himself to look at her. He'd done what she'd requested, because he'd feared mistakes would drive her further away, not because he'd wanted to or understood. He wondered if someone without a mental illness would have behaved differently. She'd pleaded with him to listen, kissed him goodbye, then left like it was nothing.

Whatever the case, her appreciation felt wrong. He didn't need gratitude. He needed answers. He inhaled sharply. "Why did you go?"

She traced the knobs of his spine. "I had to figure out the best way to be with you."

"Am I that hard to be with?" he bit out.

"Of course not. That's not what I said."

He gulped and released a ragged breath. "It broke my fucking-" He faltered when his voice cracked.

"Arthur, I didn't want to hurt you. I'm sorry." Her embrace was tight, a welcome pressure on his ribs despite the ache. Her palm slid up his sternum. "I was afraid to do more harm than good." He should have contradicted her, told her she was crazy if she believed loving him would damage him. But he stopped himself when she nuzzled his bicep. It was a while before she cleared her throat. "I love you more than I imagined possible." She giggled, then, and sniffed. "Which isn't bad for six weeks, Mr. Fleck."

Tears threatened as his eyelids fluttered. He managed to keep them at bay, covering her hand with his to distract himself. He pressed it tighter to him, until he thought her fingers might break through his chest. Finally, he met her stare. Found it full of love and what might have been joy at being together. In that moment, he knew nothing would ever separate his heart from hers.

~~~~~

"Christmas is coming up. Let me know what you'd like to do."

Arthur's slight nod was typical of their conversation this evening. Well, that wasn't quite fair. More like half of it. He'd been vacillating between bouts of confidence and timidity, with the latter tending to win out. He'd put his arm around her, examined the latest issue of TV Guide, and asked what she'd preferred to watch. She'd let him choose; he'd picked a three-hour variety show. Minutes later, he'd been squished into the corner of the sofa, legs neatly crossed with his hands clasped in his lap. She'd risen to refresh their ice teas, and he'd halted her with a kiss to her knuckles and his handsome grin. Upon her return, he'd focused on the floor and kept quiet. The changes were difficult to predict.

At least the periods of stillness made it easy for her to reflect, even as those reflections weren't entirely pleasant. She'd had faith in his ability to take care of himself and his judgment to reach out to her if he was in crisis. And while she had no regrets about taking five days to ensure she could sustain their relationship, she lamented the pain it had caused him. She'd detected it in his stiff posture in the kitchen. Seen it in his glistening eyes. Sensed it in his inconsistent reluctance to be touched.

It had been hard for her, too. The absence of their nightly calls, of shared laughter, of his presence had been keen. She would have returned to him without receiving his letter. But the ink on the page, with its occasional misspellings and earnest admissions ("I don't kno if I'm doing this right but I want to try. Maybe you want to try with me, to?") had prompted her to run to the subway before she'd taken off her coat. Confirmed that despite their differences, them being opposite in many ways, their hearts were the same.

He perked up slightly when the next performer came on, an old man from Whitefish, Montana and his paper mache ventriloquist dummy. Y/N's attention drifted to Arthur as he leaned forward onto his knees. Though the act was nothing special - terrible jokes, drinking water while the puppet talked, strumming a ukulele as it sang - his face crinkled in amusement. "They just have regular people on there," he said. "I haven't seen anyone from Gotham. I should try out."

Thankful he was focused on the show and not her, she pursed her lips. Had he forgotten how Murray had gone? Or Pogo's? Then again, he'd believed both had gone great. And she wanted him to succeed. To strive. To dream. His determination impressed her, made her proud. She searched for a truthful but kind answer. "Once you've got a set you're comfortable delivering, sure. Would you send a tape? I have a recorder you can borrow."

"I wrote a lot this week. Not many jokes but I've done some brainstorming." He flicked ash from his cigarette into the pink ashtray on the coffee table. Splayed his fingers and rubbed his palms together. The bob of his Adam's apple was faint in the dim, blue light. "Do you- Do you want to sleep over?" He turned to her.

Elated, she smiled widely and shifted to sit side-saddle. "I'd love to, but I didn't bring any clothes."

"Hold on." He rose from the couch and disappeared into the bedroom. After a minute, she followed to find him digging through a couple of cardboard boxes. Boxes filled with his mother's things, she realized. She'd have to follow-up for details, find out what had happened to ensure the transition would go as smoothly as possible. Though the relationship between him and Penny was complicated, change wouldn't be easy.

He held out a threadbare, light-blue, nylon nightdress with ruffled cap sleeves and a ribbon at the neckline. "Here."

Y/N cocked her head. The gown was exceedingly narrow, its seams stretched. If she had been inclined to wear it, it wouldn't have fit. Arthur's hopeful expression made it plain he did not see the oddity in offering his romantic partner his mother's nightwear. It was logical, she supposed. His years had been spent living hand to mouth. He didn't have any siblings. Hand-me-downs - a spare sweater here, a pair of socks there - would have come from Penny. A tad strange, to be sure. But poverty had a way of making the abnormal normal.

"Thanks," Y/N said. "But I'll be fine in my panties." At his pout, she closed the inches between them. "If you have a t-shirt, I'll take it." His brows lifted and he gave a toothy smile, comprised of surprise and conceit. The shirt he retrieved from the living room was plain and white. The lightly stained armpits didn't bother her, nor did its loose fit. It was part of his work outfit, he explained. And he claimed she looked cute in it.

Her sleep was restful, deep, better than it had been the last two weeks. Arthur being nearby and her certainty when she'd lain her head on his pillow had calmed her. She didn't think about the Wayne Foundation. She didn't worry about how to pursue a future with him. She didn't waste her energy being afraid of powerlessness. Warmth filled her, aided by contentment and cozy blankets.

When the mattress sunk beneath his weight, she didn't check the clock. Judging by the speed with which her drowsiness dissipated and the blackness of the room, it was likely around 4:00 AM. She'd gotten a solid five hours. With a slight stretch and mewl, she blinked up at him. Her elbow accidentally bumped his chest. "Aren't you tired?"

"No." He palmed her shoulder, caution palpable in every movement. Then his caress dragged down her upper arm, hovered over her breast.

She stroked his stubbled cheek. "What are you up to?"

"Making sure you're really here."

It was unclear if he was kidding. The extent of his imaginations or hallucinations - if that's what he experienced - weren't yet known to her. She recalled how he'd clutched her jacket, the way he'd fiddled with her wall calendar and coffee table when he'd come to her for help. Tactility oriented him, as it had her father before the final stages of his diagnosis. And, outside of acute episodes, Loving Someone with... had advised her to carry-on as always.

Laughing gently, she entwined their legs. "Where else would I be?"

"I don't know," he scoffed. He tucked his chin. Silence permeated the room, interrupted only by their exhalations. Eventually, he spoke, his rasp bashful and desperate. "Are you going to leave me again?"

"No." She pressed his hand to her breast, tried to soothe his tremble away. "I like it here."

She could hear his smile in the dark. He dipped his head to capture her lips. He kissed her and kissed her and kissed her again. She kissed him back until she ached with emptiness. Until she felt him hard against her hip.

"Y/N?" he breathed into her mouth.

Her pulse throbbed in her ears. "What?"

His forehead met hers and she shivered all over. "I wanna make you come."

~~~~~

Drip, drip, drip. A calming, predictable sound. The pungent smell of generic brew wafted to his nostrils, slightly burnt but familiar. Coffee. He was making his girlfriend coffee before she went to work. After they'd made love and snoozed until sunrise. After she'd admonished him for smoking in bed, then caressed his flaccid sex and teased him about his "secret freckle." (He'd covered his face in horror and delight and promised himself that one day he'd find a "secret" on her.) He hummed along to the radio, though he disliked the song, and whistled while he filled their cups. Once he'd added three sugars to his and the last of his milk to hers, he padded to the bath. He leaned on the doorframe, an imitation of nonchalance.

In her apparent rush to get to him, Y/N hadn't simply neglected to pack a change of clothing. She was swiping his stick of deodorant under her arms with haste. When she grabbed his comb and tried to tame her hair, he didn't mind. She declined his offer of Penny's eyeliner and mascara but that was fine. She didn't need them, anyway.

As she buttoned her pleated blouse, he giggled. He'd heard jokes about women going to work in identical outfits two days in a row. The innuendo had escaped him until now. A thrill went through him at finally getting the joke. He blushed. "You're dressed the same."

"I left Patricia a message that I'd be late. It won't surprise anyone." She accepted the proffered mug and took a long drink. A mischievous look as she arched a brow. "She'll want details."

Arthur's eyes widened and he rubbed his forehead. This would take getting used to.

She squeezed a line of toothpaste onto her index finger. "What are you doing today? Any gigs?"

He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, braced his arm on the wall. "I have to call the hospital. Figure out where to send my mother." He was glad to begin the process of moving on, moving forward. To start building a life of his own. Freed from the woman who hadn't protected him. Paired with the woman who understood him most. Still. He was daunted.

After a few seconds of attempting to brush her teeth, Y/N rinsed her mouth and washed her hands. "The social worker should be able to help. There must be homes specializing in lobotomy patients, given how common they were. Actually..." She stepped to him and wrapped her arms around his middle. "I bet there's an advocacy group for the elderly in Gotham. I'll call around on my break. We can have lunch and review their recommendations."

The tightness in his chest prevented him from holding her gaze. His longings for kindness didn't make it any less peculiar. He hoped he would be able to accept it without skepticism soon, like a normal person. That he wouldn't wait for the other shoe to drop. He tried to fight his negative thoughts rather than give into them.

But he couldn't. Not yet. "Why are you doing this?" he mumbled.

She gave a small shrug, as if what she was about to say wasn't a miracle. "I love you. Why wouldn't I?" Before he could react, she walked to the front door and slipped on her heels. "Besides, we should plan this weekend. Shall We Dance is showing at the Monarch. We could catch it and have dinner at my place. And there's a doctor I found for you - when you're feeling up to it. We'll go over the particulars."

The offer to see the film, one he knew every number of, was an obvious attempt to butter him up for that discussion. It would work. "That sounds nice." He went to her side and took her coat off the wall mounted rack, guided her arms into the sleeves

"Arthur," she started, zipping her jacket. Her pretty eyes met his. "I wasn't going to end our relationship. I don't want you to fear that."

He winced and clutched his hands together, annoyed she had raised the subject again after the wonderful morning they'd shared. "I believe you now."

"Back home, I made mistakes. That's why I needed time." She shook her head. "The thought of repeating them with you..."

Mistakes? What kind of mistakes was she referring to? She'd said her divorce had been mutual. A big fight with her sister or mother hadn't been mentioned. She almost never talked about what had happened with her father, other than to name his diagnosis and state she'd gone on medication. She was a good woman. Whatever she had done, it couldn't be that terrible. Not half as bad as the notions that wormed their way into his brain like a broken record.

Then she continued. "I didn't know what to do then. But I think I do now. " She nuzzled his sideburn and carded her fingers through his hair. "If I see you walking towards a cliff, I won't follow. I'll pull you back before you get there."

He stared at her, blinking rapidly as he tried to hold himself together. Her words felt like the kind of fantasy he'd created to ease his misery. To try to convince himself he should exist another day. That he should stick around. Multiple hospitalizations had proven that hadn't always worked. But this was new. Real. Maybe that reality would allow him, for a little while, to be all right.

He cupped her face, drifted his thumbs over her cheeks. She leaned into him, into the kisses he placed on her brow, her nose, her mouth. His lips parted but all he could manage was a shaky exhale. The press of his face to hers.

She must have noticed he was overwhelmed. It frustrated him - he wanted to find a way to articulate himself. But her peck to his jaw, her hand covering his, made him feel safe. "Meet you at my office at one?"

"Mm-hmm." He nodded into her hair, not quite ready to let go.

Gently, she pulled away from his grasp, took her purse, and opened the door. She smiled. "Call if you need anything."

At that, she strode down the hall in the direction of the elevator. He stepped out and watched until she disappeared around the corridor's corner. He rested against the door and closed his eyes, wishing harder than he ever had before that every morning would be like this for the rest of his life.

~~~~~

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#arthur fleck #arthur fleck fanfic #arthur fleck x reader #arthur fleck x ofc #arthur fleck x female reader #joker 2019 #watchwhathappens

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pascalls · 3 years

Text

Blinding Lights

Charlie finds solace in a familiar face after a run-in with Lovejoy.

I WANTED TO WRITE SOME CHARLIE x SAM ROMANCE SO HERE YOU GO.

Music: Blinding Lights - The Weeknd

For once, the anticipation that had settled in his clawed toes was not unpleasant.

It had been about three weeks since he’d last seen his… friend. Sam had ventured off on one of his lengthy hauls and Charlie was left to try making conversation with Larry whenever he stopped by Moe’s after work. The man was not the best conversationalist. Even less so than Sam. But it was, at least, company. Even if the late nights were earning him some ire whenever he made an attempt to return to the Lovejoy’s. Which he was beginning to fret about, whenever it came time to do so. Helen had been suspicious, as of late, wandering down into the basement at inopportune times and forcing the hybrid to take cover behind some piece of furniture or clamber out the window before he could be spotted.

Helen was clever. It wouldn’t take her very long to figure out what was going on, if he wasn’t cautious.

So he spent more time away, taking advantage of Moe’s cranky brand of hospitality and crashing in the man’s bed alongside him on more than one occasion. Regrettably, the paychecks that were coming from the school were still not enough for him to find his own place. But it was enough to make sure that he could get food regularly and the occasional small trinket or gift for Connor when he was able to see his son.

It was an improvement.

The muggy late-Spring air signified that they were certainly in for some heat in the upcoming summer season. Despite the slight slick of sweat that had coated his back as he strolled down the sidewalk, he didn’t allow the humidity to dampen his spirits. A busy day at the school - there had been an unfortunate incident where several gym students ran headlong into some cacti that Willie had forgotten to remove before the class encountered it - had meant that he was looking forward to meeting Sam in the evening to unwind.

Since the fall, where Charlie had allowed a bit of drunken boldness to make a move on the older man - one that he hadn’t been sure would be reciprocated - the two spent quite a bit of time together. It was a pleasant contrast to the nearly constant paranoia that he dealt with when he spent any modicum of time with the reverend. Something internal told him that this was a good thing, but he did his best not to get too carried away. Even if he and Sam had shared a few more… intimate moments, he was loathe to get so comfortable that he expected it as a default of their ‘relationship’. Whatever that relationship was. It had not been so neatly defined thus far. Part of him was okay with that - it meant that perhaps he was not in so deep that he could make a drastic mistake. But the other part of him… Well. He was desperate, deep down, for some solid footing.

Luckily, he was patient.

As he watched the sun begin to dip beyond the horizon, Charlie made his way towards the depot where he knew Sam left his truck. At times, the man would opt to sleep in the cab instead of actually trying to get back to his home. And Charlie didn’t mind that so much. There was something homey and comforting about that tiny bedroom where they didn’t have much of a choice but to press into each other’s personal space. It made for a good wingman… on more than one occasion. But his desires were not always so lecherous, he reminded himself. Today, he just wanted to bring his friend a hot meal that he’d picked up on the way - some teriyaki chicken and chow mein, along with a few cans of Duff - and make up for the lost time. Sam had confided into his more than once that life on the road was a bit dull and dreary. Returning to Springfield was generally the highlight. Charlie had agreed, but did his best to not be… so blatantly enthusiastic about it.

Tugging uncomfortably at his mask, he eagerly picked up the pace. Sam had told him that he’d be back by seven-thirty, and it was nearing eight already. Charlie looked forward to ditching his uncomfortable attire in favor of just being himself. Sam had kept his word - that he would not tell anyone about Charlie’s secret - and had kept that just between them. Even when they were around Moe, who was just as wise to the truth as they were. Charlie respected the man’s ability to keep things to himself, and he welcomed the fact that Sam didn’t seem to mind at all. It was a little strange, he told Charlie once. But, he admitted, that he’d seen a lot stranger during his years on the road. Charlie didn’t argue with that, even if his hind-brain wanted to. But it made the nights that they spent together a lot less strenuous. No hiding, no pretense. Sam was easy-going and confident in himself and what he liked. The hybrid found it… a little intimidating, at times. And might have found it almost frightening if Sam didn’t have a distinct way of putting him at ease.

Ugh. He felt himself a little hot in the face, just thinking about it.

His route took him past the church where he hesitated, feeling sweat bead at his temple for an entirely different reason. Hidden underneath his disguise though he was, there was something oppressive about the building that loomed overhead. He’d been hesitant to be seen in the church anywhere near the reverend as of late. It had a tendency to come back to bite him. He’d also pulled himself away from Chalmers’ obvious attempts at corralling him into this or that. Alarm bells had been set off at some point and he panicked, keeping his distance from both Tim and Gary for the sake of his own hide. Something had told him that despite his churning desire to be wanted by either - or both - of them, it was unwise.

Still… it was hard to ignore those desires. Every time he caught Lovejoy’s eyes, it opened up a whole box of feelings that he tried his hardest to cram down. The effort made him want to puke, at the best of times. At the worst of times, he followed his feet and simply absconded from the situation.

“I see that you’re purposefully avoiding me,” said a voice from a few feet away. It made Charlie jump and nearly drop the noodles in his possession, but he managed to keep his grip on it, glancing over at the church’s sign which had been hiding the reverend in question. Oh. He must have been changing the words and… Charlie hadn’t noticed.

Defensive, Charlie let out a little snuff. But he did his best to keep his cool. He didn’t want to ruin his mood by getting into an argument. Especially not when he was already late in meeting Sam. The last thing he wanted was for the other man to think Charlie had stood him up. “I had plans. And I’ve been busy with work. I’m not avoiding you.” Internally, he wondered if maybe he was trying to reassure Tim. That he hadn’t forgotten about him. Even if their encounters were strained, once upon a time, he thought that the man might return those torrid feelings that the hybrid had clung to now for months.

“You’ve had a lot of plans the last couple of weeks,” Lovejoy replied, clearly suspicious of the hybrid’s motives. He shut the box of letters he’d been using to change out the sign, glancing down at the bag of food that Charlie was carrying. “Are you doing food delivery now?”

“No,” Charlie said calmly, ignoring the reverend’s initial observation. Sure. He had plans a lot. Which was mostly just crashing with Moe. But Lovejoy didn’t need to know every detail of his life. “If you wanted me to share my calendar with you, I would have. But you never asked.” It was a bit of a dig. To make Tim really consider how overbearing he was being. As usual, it probably wouldn't work. But that wouldn’t keep Charlie from making the attempt anyway. The holy man was usually too far up his own ass to realize.

Lovejoy tried his best to maintain his composure, drifting closer to the hybrid as if he were going to engage in friendly conversation with a parishioner. As he was expected to do. But his stare was still accusatory. And Charlie noticed that it looked like the man wasn’t getting much sleep, the dark circles underneath his eyes even more prominent. “Not knowing whether or not you’re down there makes it hard for me to figure out what I need to do to keep Helen off your trail. Checking in would at least be appreciated.”

The hybrid stared at Tim, trying his best not to let guilt jab at him from somewhere in the back of his mind. No, it wasn’t his problem if Tim wanted to continue to lie to Helen, whether or not Charlie was there. At this point, he was loath to say that he even wanted to keep being a secret from the reverend’s wife. The town gossip though she was, would anyone really believe her if she happened to mention that there was a reptilian succubus living in her basement?

Probably not.

Charlie breathed out a little sigh, leveling his stare at the other and refusing to duck his head to appear meek. “Then just assume I’m not. I’m making a fair enough income now. I can find other places to sleep that are a little more comfortable than under your train set.” It was a lie. Sort of. The income had nothing to do with the fact that he had an ally or two that he could rely on for a nice, warm bed. Even if Moe’s had a weird smell to it, he at least had a mattress. And Waylon was occasionally accommodating, as long as Charlie could provide a bit of ‘entertainment’ and distractions in the process. And Sam… Well… When he was in town, Charlie had never been turned away. It brought a bit of a warm feeling that settled in his belly and emboldened him just a little in the face of the reverend.

Tim looked a bit taken aback. As if he’d been slightly offended. “So… what, you don’t need me anymore?” It had been clearly meant as an attack, but there was a slight twinge of hurt in the man’s voice.

The hybrid looked away briefly, not meeting Tim’s gaze. He recognized when he was being guilted. Lovejoy was good at it. “That’s not what I said.” Maybe. Maybe he didn’t need Tim anymore. Despite the aching in his chest, he’d long-since been affirmed that there was nothing for him if he chased the expectation of being welcomed into the reverend’s arms. But he hesitated to admit that here and now. Not when he was running late to meet Sam. “I’m not ungrateful,” he continued. “I just… I’m not interested in burdening you with myself for any longer than I need to. You can’t tell me you don’t want that space back to yourself?” He turned the situation back around on Lovejoy, pressing him to say otherwise. Maybe trying to get him to admit something one way or another.

“I’m only concerned with what you’re telling people about me,” Tim said, tension in his shoulders. He didn’t like being cornered like that, Charlie knew.

“I’m not telling people anything. Even if I did, who would believe me? You’ve got… y’know. Jesus on your side or whatever. Anyone here would take your word over mine in a heartbeat.”

Lovejoy found it hard to argue with that, but he chased the urge to do so, taking a step which blocked Charlie’s way forward. Whether he did it on purpose or not, Charlie felt slightly threatened, feeling his scales bristle in mild fear underneath his clothes. The time was ticking by. Sam would undoubtedly believe that something had happened if the hybrid didn’t get going now.

“You’re my responsibility. If I let you wander around without knowing where you are or what you’re doing, who’s to say that Burns won’t come looking for you?” Lovejoy stared at Charlie with apparent conviction. “The bible says that a good shepherd lays down his life for his sheep.”

“I’m not a sheep!” Charlie snapped, though he did his best to keep his voice down. It was not yet night and there could be others passing by. “I’m sick of you calling me that. I wasn’t put here for you to guide me to the light. You’ve got plenty of people in there,” he pointed to the church, “waiting for you to tell them what to do and how to live. Just because you hit me with your car doesn’t make me one of them.” Angry though he was, he wanted nothing more than to leave. End the conversation. Do not pass Go. Do not collect $200. So he pushed past the other, trying to make his way towards the depot again.

“I just want to save you!” Lovejoy called after him, desperation lacing his tone. But Charlie was not feeling kind.

“From what?” He called back to the other, whirling around to narrow eyes at him. “From my Sin? Because right now, the only thing I need to be saved from is you.”

Tim paused, clearly taken aback. “You don’t mean that.”

Exhaling into his mask, Charlie bit back an aggressive retort. “I only have so much fight in me,” he said, loud enough just for the other to hear above the buzzing of the nearby street lamp. “I can’t keep chasing something that you’ve told me time and time again is wrong. You tear me apart in six different ways every time you look at me and you still expect me to get on my knees and beg you for a single positive interaction. I don’t want to do that anymore.” He sighed again, shoulders slumping. “You know how I feel. How I’ve felt. If you don’t want to - or can’t - return that, then the onus is on me to move on.”

The reverend seemed rooted to the spot, unable to say anything in return for a few moments. As if he was having a hard time refuting what he was being told. Charlie knew he couldn’t. It had been more than enough times that he’d said to the hybrid that what he felt was wrong - they couldn’t be together. No matter what emotion or desire lay underneath the surface of Lovejoy’s religious shell. And Charlie was simply tired.

“I-” Tim began. But he was cut off as he looked up to see that they were no longer alone.

“Charlie?”

The hybrid turned back around to see that their conversation had been interrupted by Sam. He blinked in surprise, then moderate embarrassment. “God, what time is it?” He said, haphazardly trying to cover up what he and Lovejoy had just been discussing. “I didn’t mean to make you come this way to find me. I was on my way, honestly.” Sheepishly, Charlie smiled from behind his mask. It wasn’t immediately obvious, but Sam’s easy-going nature meant that he could return the gesture just as easily.

“It’s alright. I just thought something mighta happened. Glad t’see that you weren’t held up too much,” Sam replied cheerfully before his attention shifted to the reverend to whom he gave a courteous nod. “Rev.”

Lovejoy was tense from head-to-toe, forced to process Charlie’s last words and put one and one together to come to a conclusion that Charlie knew he’d hear about later. The reverend’s gaze was squarely on the barfly before he was able to regather his composure and return the nod. He didn’t know the man’s name. Had never bothered learning it, even if Sam made the rare appearance from time to time in the church. He had no particularly strong religious convictions.

Charlie glanced back at Tim nervously. No doubt, they’d have to pick up that conversation later. “It was nice to see you, Reverend,” he said after a moment. “We’ll chat again soon.”

Sam looked from Charlie over to Lovejoy, the tension in the air palpable. But he said nothing, gesturing for the hybrid to accompany him back to the depot. His home was a little too far for them to walk there without the trip taking them well into the night. So the truck would have to do for now. Not that he or Charlie minded very much.

Charlie followed behind, casting one last look at Lovejoy. He could swear that the holy man looked like he was about to break into a tirade, but he heard nothing and eventually focused fully back on Sam, hoping that his pre-planned rendezvous would block out the feeling that he’d just shattered Lovejoy’s heart in some type of way. Maybe because he knew how it felt…

“You alright?”

Sam’s voice broke through the veil of guilt that threatened to pull Charlie under. Shaking it off, Charlie glanced up at the other and nodded, allowing himself a slightly nervous laugh. “Yeah. Just… you know. Getting preached at sometimes kind of throws me off.”

“Didn’t seem like a typical sermon,” Sam replied, glancing at Charlie knowingly from behind his glasses.

Clearing his throat, Charlie tried not to make eye contact. He had a… difficult time lying to Sam. Whether it was because he genuinely trusted the man or didn’t want to lie to him, he wasn’t sure which. But he didn’t want to get into the particulars. Especially not when he felt like it… might put things at risk. Nope, he didn’t want that. “I brought you some food!” He said instead, holding up the bag with the chicken and noodles within. Hoping that would be a sufficient distraction. Luckily, Sam seemed to accept that the hybrid was not an open book at that exact moment, and he took the bag from the other before patting Charlie’s plastic beak affectionately.

“Y’can take that off if y’want. There’s nobody on these side streets and nobody at the depot. We shouldn’t be bothered any.”

Breathing out a little sigh of relief, Charlie tugged off the mask and cloak, holding them in his arms as they walked. It was becoming more of a chore to keep his disguise maintained from day to day. Whenever he got the opportunity to not wear it, he considered it a blessing.

“That’s better,” the barfly said with a little smile.

Charlie had to keep himself from giggling like a fucking school girl. Fuck. What was wrong with him? They’d certainly had more intimate moments than this, but something as simple as that tiny, hidden compliment had him reeling. Stupid.

They walked side by side until the depot fence came into view and the hybrid followed Sam through the gate and towards his rig. The bright red was always a stand-out and made it easy to identify. He was thankful for that, knowing that had he not been able to tell the difference, he may have frightened some random trucker on more than one occasion.

“Wasn’t too bad of a trip, I take it?” Charlie asked as he came to the door, waiting patiently as it was unlocked and Sam clambered inside, reaching out to offer a hand for Charlie to climb up right after him.

“Boring, but otherwise pretty run of th’mill,” Sam replied, shutting the door behind him and making his way back to the not-very-roomy bedroom that he slept in. Charlie set the bits of his disguise in the front seat and hopped back with him, making himself comfortable on the bed and giving a lazy stretch. Sam settled on the floor for now, opening up the food that Charlie had brought him and making short work of it. Obviously hungry.

“You never seem to have very interesting stories. Unless you keep them all under wraps.” Charlie scooted up behind Sam, rolling onto his back on the bed and batting gently at the man’s hat like a lazy cat.

“Warehouses and truck stops don’t really make for interestin’ conversation.” Sam removed his hat and placed it over Charlie’s face with a gentle huff of laughter in between bites of his food. Something about his rumble of a laugh made the hybrid’s stomach flip pleasantly. It was a comforting sound after his earlier confrontation with Lovejoy. “Besides, I have more interestin’ stories whenever you drag me into somethin’. Wouldn’ make sense t’tell you about ‘em when you were there.”

“Aw,” Charlie replied, sitting up and setting the man’s hat atop his own head to wear. Feeling a little goofy and giddy as he did so. “Didn’t realize you felt that way.~” His voice lilted teasingly as he settled into their usual back-and-forth routine of flirt after flirt. Despite Sam’s quiet, old-man demeanor that he normally carried around, they both played off each other fairly well. It was something Charlie cherished. And something he figured that not many others were able to experience when they were sharing Sam’s company. It made him feel… special. Wanted.

He kept that bit to himself.

“So…” Sam began once he’d finished his food and was working on one of the beer’s that Charlie had provided him with. The hybrid was not as interested in getting drunk tonight, but he’d more than adjusted to the perpetual scent of alcohol and cigarettes that had long-since settled into Sam’s clothes. In fact… there was a part of him that enjoyed it. “I’m guessin’ I didn’t actually interrupt a sermon earlier.”

Charlie tensed slightly, reaching up to remove Sam’s hat and set it aside as he shifted his gaze away from the other. Guilt threatened to bubble up inside of his gut again. “...That obvious, huh.”

“A little. Th’way he was lookin’ at you made it look like you’d ran over his dog.”

Scoffing, Charlie didn’t answer right away. Uncomfortable with the topic, but knowing that he likely owed Sam some form of explanation. He trusted the man. Though he worried, internally, that getting too far into his fucked up dynamic with the reverend would frighten Sam away for one reason or another.

“He was just upset that I wasn’t coming around as often. Mostly just been… minding my business whenever you’re not here. Hanging out with Moe… That kind of thing.” He hesitated to go into further detail than that. Sam didn’t need to know that he occasionally slept over with Smithers too. It made him feel like a little bit of a… slut… Not that he would say so.

“Uh-huh,” Sam replied, nursing his beer and seemingly lost in thought until he continued. “And he’s… not likin’ that he can’t keep tabs on you?”

“...Possibly.”

“Hm. Sounds like he’s upset that you’re not as obsessive over him as he wants you t’be.”

Charlie frowned a little to himself. Sam had probably hit the nail on the head. His tail curled around himself as his insecurities were brought to light, though he had a hard time being upset at Sam about it. The man was only saying what he’d been able to observe. It must have been pretty obvious, now that Charlie thought about it… “I’m sick of his hovering. It’s gotten out of control.”

“And y’told him that?”

“I tried to.” Charlie’s ears dropped back against his hair, admitting in a not-so-verbal way that he had not been as assertive as he probably should have been.

There was silence for a moment as Charlie stared down at the sheets on the bed and Sam seemed to be focused on his drink. Until he seemed to be finished with it and set it aside to toss in the garbage later, getting up with some effort and getting himself into the bed to sit next to the hybrid. Charlie glanced away from him. A bit ashamed that the topic of Lovejoy had been brought up at all. Drunkard or otherwise, Sam had some good powers of observation. As much as Charlie enjoyed his company, it made him feel like he was being seen right through.

“He’s gonna have t’accept that you’re your own person eventually. Whether or not he wants to,” Sam finally said after a few minutes had passed.

“I’m not even sure I’ve accepted that yet,” Charlie responded with a bit of a bitter laugh. He hadn’t meant to say that, but it came out of him all the same. “And the last thing I need is to put the burden on you to help me do that. It’s not your responsibility.” He found himself echoing what he’d told Lovejoy, but from… a different part of himself. With Lovejoy, it was through tired defeat that he tried to remove himself from the situation, but now… He just didn’t want to saddle Sam with more drama that the man surely didn’t need in his relatively quiet life.

Before he realized it, he felt a press against his shoulder, turning to glance at Sam as the other closed the distance between them, watching for a heart-pounding moment as the barfly reached to intertwine their pinkies as they had done several times before. It was a much more romantic gesture than Charlie had initially meant it to be the first time they’d done it. But now… It set his nerves alight and made him wish that his face weren’t so red.

“Might not be my responsibility, but m’happy to help you along,” he murmured to Charlie, the slight slur in his words not at all dampening the intent which made the hybrid wheeze a little with embarrassment as he unwittingly scooted his hand to take a more firm hold of Sam’s. Maybe clinging to it. Just a little. God help him.

“You could really fool everyone, you know. Into thinking you’re just ‘some guy’ at the bar,” Charlie said after a moment of trying to calm his racing heart. “And not… you. The you that I know.”

Sam chuckled a little. “The me that you know is not as drunk as I usually am.” Leaning over, he pressed a kiss to Charlie’s temple. A gesture which did not qualm the aggressive thump-thump going on inside of Charlie’s chest. He didn’t altogether understand why he couldn’t get himself together. He was not unfamiliar with the concept of being smitten, but he’d been denied a positive response to it for so long, that he hesitated to call it that this time too.

At least until another kiss was placed to the side of his face and he faltered, unable to resist allowing himself to hope. Maybe it would be different. Lovejoy never gave him this kind of affection so openly. Not without a fair amount of pestering. Not without an argument and harsh words. Not without pleading and tears and a thick, heavy feeling that hung around his head. Right now… all he felt was light. There was fear, but as the seconds ticked by, Charlie tried to muffle it.

And eventually he turned, meeting Sam’s gaze for a prolonged moment. It was honest, he thought. There was no sense of an ulterior motive. No reason for Charlie to believe that this was all a long-con. Sam was not that kind of man. Right?

Right?

His hesitation was not missed. Reaching up with his other hand - his fingers rough and calloused, Charlie noticed - Sam placed it gently against Charlie’s cheek. Holding his face delicately and softly, as though he was trying to provide the kindest support. To offer warmth through the touch that would squelch that fear.

God, Charlie thought.

Let me not be wrong again.

As though a dam had burst, Charlie leaned forward and captured Sam’s mouth with his own, drawing him into a heated and nearly desperate kiss that Sam returned after a moment of trying to process the act. Every time Sam went away for a while, the hybrid forgot just how warm and comforting his kisses were. His hands were strong, but kind. He tasted like beer and smoke, but Charlie couldn’t get enough. He drank in the affection to the point where he thought that it would drown him. But it would be a sweet death, Charlie thought.

For once, he forgot about Lovejoy. As he broke the kiss to take in a breath, he caught Sam’s eyes again.

“I missed you,” he blurted out against the other man’s lips, red in the face when he realized how brazen the admission was. But he certainly wouldn’t take it back. The feeling was only solidified with Sam nodded, a bit breathy in his murmur of agreement before Charlie felt himself being pulled into another kiss, toppling over and onto the bed as he felt Sam’s arms closing around him.

It hadn’t been the first time they’d spent the night together, but there was something different now. Charlie hesitated to put words to it, but as he felt himself get lost in the comfort and security of Sam’s presence, he knew that he would have to, eventually.

For now, he was okay with accepting the warmth and safety he was being offered. He was okay with murmuring more sweet words when he could find the words to say. He was okay with being vulnerable. He was okay with the warm, smoky sound of Sam’s voice in his ear. He was okay with the touch of his hands; the heat between their kisses; the thrumming of his own heart.

He thought about the next time Sam would have to go away for a while. It made him ache.

Maybe he’d tag along.

In the corner, his phone lay unattended, dutifully remaining in silent mode as the night wore on. The screen blinked lazily, but otherwise didn’t bother to alert its owner that he had missed several calls from the reverend.

They would go unanswered tonight.

#tj writes #the simpsons #simpsona #oc #only took me like 4 hours LOL

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the-wlw-cafe · 4 years

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Craving Comfort (A supercorp fic)

This is my secret santa gift for @super66legends87! Now I do realize that I might have messed up a bit here, when I went through your blog and found that you like supercorp, i decided to turn this into a supercorp Story, but now that the Holidays are rolling around every secret santa fic i see is a Reader insert, so that ´s a whoopsie. If you’d rather have a Reader insert Story, I totally understand and I’ll write another one for you ^^

anyway, thanks to @oneofakindimagines for letting me participate!

Some days were harder than others. Some days Lena just wanted to down decanter after decanter of scotch until the world around her started to fade into a dull haze. Were it not for Kara, she would absolutely already have drunken herself into a stupor.

Before, Lena would always ask herself how Kara always seemed to know when she needed her best friend, which sixth sense told her that Lena was about to do something stupid, about to indulge in her coping mechanisms she damn well knew were unhealthy, but didn’t have the strength to leave behind. But that was before. Before Lex revealed Kara’s secret with his dying breath, before the all the anger, the hurt, the resentment, and the months and months of bitter loneliness whose memory alone made Lena want to curl in on herself and cry. They were fine now, different, but fine, and yet a sore scar remained, a deep cut only recently healed. The months of radio silence had almost been too much to bear for Lena. She didn’t know how she would survive another rift like this.

But know she knew. She knew how Kara responded to every minute change of her heartbeat, because she had told her time and time again that it was her favourite sound in the world, because she used it to ground herself when everything would become too overwhelming. She knew how Kara could hear every half-choked sob she couldn’t contain after she would lock her office doors and tell Jess to send everyone away, because after so many assassination attempts Kara couldn’t fight the habit to check in on Lena every so often. She knew that Kara would be there in literal seconds, and all she had to say was...

“Kara.”

It still came difficult for her, openly asking for help like that, when every single one of her Luthor instincts was telling her to lick her wounds where nobody could see her, where nobody could ever bear witness to her shameful weakness. But some days were harder than others. Some days she just needed Kara.

She heard the quiet tap on her balcony door before she could start to second-guess herself. She opened it quickly and let Kara puller her into her arms like it was the most natural thing in the world. Kara had always been a very tactile person, but after their reconciliation the physical side of their friendship had intensified even more. It was as if they both needed physical confirmation that they were here, they were real, they were not going anywhere, a comfort that went beyond kind words and soft affirmations. A comfort that was a slippery slope to Lena, because the longer she allowed herself to be held by Kara, the more difficult it was to let her go again.

“Do you want to talk about what happened?”, Kara murmured into her hair, squeezing Lena tightly. The honest answer was no. No, Lena didn’t want to talk about it, she just wanted to forget. But what she wanted and what she should do were, as was the case so often, two very different things.

“Remember the important board meeting I told you about?”

“Of course I do,” Kara replied without a modicum of hesitation, as if it went without saying. Lena could feel her throat get tighter with the effort not to cry. A deep crinkle born of worry began to form between her best friend’s brows.

“Did something happen? You know, my offer to dig up dirt on every single one of these old chauvinists still stands, I bet not even half of them do their taxes...”

Despite herself, Lena could feel a smile playing around the corners of her mouth.

“It’s about Mr Whitman”, she says, and immediately Kara’s face lights up in recognition.

Mr Whitman was by far the oldest chairman of the board, he had watched the former Luthor Corp change hands from her father, to Lex, and finally to her, and through it all, he had never once doubted her. He was the good one, the one decent person among all these men still infatuated with Lex and his ideals, barely hiding their xenophobia and misogyny behind a facade of civility.

“What about him? Is he okay?”

Lena gritted her teeth. She didn’t want to recall their conversation, but she knows she’ll feel better afterwards. She always felt lighter after crying in Kara’s arms, which was a worrying development to say the least. Any kind of attachment this profound made her feel queasy, because she knew it was just going to spiral from there, like it had countless times before, in boarding school, in Metropolis...in the end, she always got too attached too quickly, and in the end it got her nothing but ridicule and isolation.

“After the meeting, he came to congratulate me. He told me that he envied my patience, that it was a skill Lex never possessed.” She can see Kara opening her mouth, doubtlessly to say something along the lines of he’s right and I’m so proud of you, so she quickly presses out the rest of the sentence from behind clenched teeth.

“He said he knew it can’t be easy to uphold that mask of a politically correct do-gooder until all the damage Lex did with his ill-advised actions has been undone.”

“Oh, Lena...” Kara sighed, and fuck, Lena could feel hot tears spilling onto her cheeks now.

“And I realized it would never be enough. No matter what I do, no matter how many lives I save, I’ll always be indistinguishable from them...”

Her voice tapered off into sobs, and the silence that ensued stretched long enough for Lena to worry if she’d done it now, if she’d been too clingy, too emotional.

But then, she felt it: The gentle press of Kara’s lips to her forehead so softly it was barely more than a whisper of a touch. It still made her gasp out loud, and even through her anguish she felt a warmth spread through her entire being that has nothing to do with Kara’s heightened body temperature. It had been so long since she’d felt a tender gesture like that, the last time being a hazy memory of her mother, her real mother, trading spoonfuls of peas for kisses when she was barely more than three years old and a very fussy eater.

It was beautiful, it was peaceful, and it was over far too soon. Lena could just so keep from stopping Kara when she pulled back, holding Lena at an arm’s length so she could look her in the eyes.

“Lena, you are nothing like them”, she states firmly. “You are nothing like them, and nothing like the person they want you to be. You are infinitely better, infinitely stronger than they could ever imagine.”

Lena sniffed, and nodded.

“You’re good, Lena. Can you repeat that for me?”

Deep breath in. Deep breath out.

“I’m good”, Lena said, with barely any tremble in her voice, her fingers absently touching the spot where she still felt the echo of Kara’s lips.

In the days following, Lena could barely think of anything but the kiss. It was almost a welcome respite, because in the moments her brain was not occupied it seemed hell bent on reminding her of every conversation she’d ever shared with Mr Whitman, fond memories with somebody she’d almost considered a friend that had become poisoned now that he had shown his true colours. She trudged through the days, fuelled only by Kara’s frequent texts of either gentle encouragements or pictures of whatever animals she’d met on the streets that day. And the texts did make her forget about her miserable situation for a second or two, but in the end, they just reminded Lena of what she needed most: She needed Kara, she needed her to be there for her, to hold her, to tell her she wasn’t inherently wicked, to...to kiss her forehead again.

But she couldn’t ask that of her. She wouldn’t even know how. For a woman who prided herself in her ability to outsmart and outtalk any adversary in the boardroom, she didn’t have the words. It was probably for the best anyway. Asking for a forehead kiss from her best friend would definitely be weird. Crossing boundaries. Being clingy. Dependant. Overly physical. Manipulative. Predatory.

So she didn’t bring it up, she just smiled, rested her head on Kara’s shoulders during movie night with her heart almost beating out of her chest and her palms damp from anxiety, and yearned in silence.

She held out for two weeks. Now that she knew what Kara’s lips felt like when pressed to her forehead, she could not focus on anything else. It was a wonder, really, that it took so long for her to make a complete fool of herself in front of Kara. But here she was, completely enveloped in a shocked, painfully awkward silence, having just asked her best friend to kiss her.

She hadn’t meant for it to sound like that. She hadn’t meant to say it at all. The only excuse she could find was the fact that she’d been running on nothing but caffeine and spite for days now, she was frustrated with her company and most of all herself, and really, could she really be counted as fully accountable of her actions in her addled state of mind? But the why wasn’t important. The only thing that mattered now was how on earth Lena could salvage their friendship now. Because she’d been stressed, she’d been moments away from crying again, and Kara had been so kind to her, hugged her like she always did when she thought Lena needed a “serotonin boost”, and Lena had just craved the comfort so much she hadn’t been able to stop herself from blurting out the words “Kiss me?”.

And of course, shocked silence had been the answer. And Lena contemplated throwing herself out of the nearest window.

“Kara, I’m so sorry, I don’t know what I was thi-”

She didn’t get any further than that, because the feeling of Kara’s lips pressed gently against hers effectively shut her up. There was maybe half a second of uncertainty, half a second of questioning if she was really exhausted and crushing hard enough to hallucinate Kara kissing her, but then she could feel Kara’s hand tangling with her hair, playing with the strands, and Lena felt herself lean into the kiss, reciprocating with the same dreamy reverence Kara showed through her touch.

When they finally broke apart, it was with a soft sigh, and for the life of her Lena couldn’t figure out from whom it had come. She felt airy, light-hearted and most decidedly light-brained. Which might explain why the next words exiting her mouth were:

“I was asking for a forehead kiss.”

She could see the dreamy smile immediately fading from Kara’s expression, and Lena instantly felt heartbroken for being the cause of it.

“Oh Rao, Lena, I’m sorry...” Kara scrambled to explain, but Lena was quick to interrupt her by placing a single finger on her best friend’s lips. Kara fell silent immediately, as if Lena had stolen the words right off of her tongue.

“I’m not complaining,” she whispered, slowly moving closer to Kara as if approaching a frightened animal. “In fact, when taking into account that it took me two weeks and a worrying amount of sleep deprivation to work up the courage to ask for a forehead kiss, I don��t think I’d ever be brave enough to ask for this.”

She watched with undisguised affection as Kara’s lips opened in a surprised oh and her eyes went wide.

“Kara?” she said, chuckling softly as her best friend nodded slowly, as if caught in a trance.

“Kiss me again.”

#supercorp #secret santa fic #supercorp fic #supergirl #supergirl fanfiction #wlw fanfic

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artificialqueens · 4 years

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The Goode Case, 6/14 - Juno

Chapter Summary: Forensics have some news, prompting Jaida, Brita and Jackie to visit the guest house in the daytime. What will they find in the light of day?

(A/N: I really appreciate all the supportive words that have come through for this, thank you!! Here is part six.)

Monday 30thOctober

9.46AM

Jaida gulped down her third cappuccino from the vending machine. They always came out lukewarm, while Jaida normally liked hers hot, to burn her throat and remind her she was awake. Especially today, when her mind was still foggy from the events of the weekend.

She put her cup in front of the vendor and poured a fourth, hoping that this would be the one where she started to feel the magic.

It was now four days since any confirmed sighting of Gigi Goode. Reality was starting to bite that the longer this went on, the less likely it was that Gigi would turn up alive. The anklet that the two students had turned up had been the only clue as to her whereabouts. It was unlikely that Gigi would still be there, but there may be more clues.

She took her coffee back to the chair, at her laptop, smoothing down her shirt. She had barely logged back into her account when Brita approached her.

“I don’t want to talk about it yet,” Jaida said, not looking directly at Brita.

Brita ignored her. “Forensics report that they found some DNA evidence for Gigi, fingerprints which match those on the clasp of the anklet, on the railings on the staircase and the walls downstairs. No other evidence though, no body fluids, no blood. Gigi was in the house, but it’s not clear for how long, or that she stayed there.”

“Alright then.” Jaida continued her typing.

“I know you’re pissed at us, sis,” Brita’s tone changed, softened, “but we do need to go back to the guest house. Chief wants us to look in more detail for more clues. The parents have confirmed that it’s definitely Gigi’s anklet, even though we already knew that from Crystal. So, we’re going back.”

Jaida nodded. “When?”

“Eleven. I’m driving. Daylight will make it less … weird. We’ll just be able to do our jobs.”

“I’ll be ready at eleven then,” Jaida said, pushing her braids behind her shoulders. “You and me? And Jackie too?”

“The three of us,” Brita confirmed. “Be ready for ten to eleven.”

Jaida just nodded at her, bringing her coffee cup to her lips and chugging it down as fast as she could. She might need another – it was shaping up to be a long day.

She was contemplating whether a fifth cup would make her too jittery, when Jackie came out of her training meeting and flopped into her chair.

“Lovely day,” she began, pointing at the dark grey clouds out of the window.

“Beautiful,” Jaida replied, without looking up. She focused on making her mind not think of anything but the report she was writing up, the progress report for Chief. That was more important, at this point, than talking to Jackie about whatever psychic thing she had on her mind this time.

Jackie didn’t seem to take the hint. “We didn’t get much yesterday evening, did we?”

“I think we got enough.” Jaida pointedly typed a little louder.

“Jai, how many times am I going to have to apologise for not telling you, before you at least look at me?”

Jaida rolled her eyes. “I’m not angry at you, or Brita. I’m just feeling a bit …”

“Disorganised?” Brita offered with a chuckle. She was coming back to her seat, mug of coffee in her hand. “We know you like things to be nice and organised. Come on sis, you even have different ringtones for me and Jackie.”

“Yeah,” Jaida mused. “I guess so.”

Brita had a point. Things has become a little disorganised the last couple of days. Her mediumship, which was now slipping into her work life. Brita and Jackie, who now felt closer as friends than ever. And Jan Mantione, who Jaida had found had entered her own dreams last night – much more pleasant ones than she’d had on Saturday night, anyway.

Like the tones on her phone, the portions of her life that she’d always so carefully separated, for fear, or embarrassment; or for a modicum of privacy and self-preservation; even for no reason at all – were all beginning to collide, the defined mental lines blurring, fizzling into nothing.

Jackie was watching her, Jaida met her dark brown eyes. As private and orderly as Jaida liked to be, Jackie was the total opposite; she couldn’t have hidden anything on her face, her earnest expression giving away everything she was feeling. Jaida didn’t need telepathy to know that.

“What?” Jackie smiled a little awkwardly at Jaida’s stare.

“I think I’m going to change your ringtone to match Brita’s.”

11.22AM

Even in the daytime, the guest house looked foreboding, even more so with the yellow hazard tape around the fences.

Brita immediately turned on her torch once they were inside, for even the light of day didn’t show everything, and led the way through the front door. Jackie pulled her glasses from her pocket and slid them over her nose, before switching on her own torch. Jaida, the notepad and pen in her left hand, trailed them without a torch, relying on Brita and Jackie’s lights to show the way.

“Where was the anklet found?” Jackie asked.

“At the foot of the staircase,” Brita replied.

Jaida looked at the entrance to the kitchen, which was to their right, as they filed to the hallway, and saw the woman again. Her hair that remained was light brown, but her skin that was exposed was completely black, clothes charred, eyes white with dust.

She stood and stared at Jaida as they walked past. Part of Jaida wanted to know more about her, but she turned her face away hurriedly and moved half a step closer to Jackie in front of her. They had a job to do today.

“As the DNA evidence was found on what’s left of these railings, it indicates that maybe Gigi came up here.”

“I said that yesterday,” Jaida muttered. “I told you I saw her upstairs.”

“We going up?” Jackie whispered, pointing to the stairs. Brita nodded grimly.

“Let’s see what’s in the guest rooms.”

Brita and Jackie didn’t notice Jaida’s breath hitch as they climbed the staircase. At the top of them was a man, balanced on what remained of the railing, just at the top of the steps. It was the same man as last night, Jaida noticed and in the light, she could now see noose marks around his throat. Jaida swallowed, forcing herself to breathe normally, watching with rising nausea as first Brita and then Jackie walked straight past him, not seeing him.

When Jaida got near him, he watched her. His face was dark and grey, and his eyes were inconsolably sad. When she reached the top of the stairs, turning right, he dropped off the rail, gliding to settle in front of Jaida, stopping her from going any further. She could see Jackie and Brita vaguely through him, but he wouldn’t let her pass. When she tried to step forward, the man glided to block her.

Then Jackie’s words came into her head. “There would be no point in just seeing someone, they probably want to communicate something with you.”

“What – what do you need?” Jaida’s voice shook as she spoke, unsure what she was doing.

He was the same height as her, and she could look straight at his dulled eyes. His face was a little blurred, but Jaida could still sense the emotion – such sadness that she felt like she could cry for him. The whole experience felt very strange, and a little macabre.

She was vaguely aware of Jackie and Brita turning to watch her, Brita saying something that she couldn’t catch.

“Hello? What’s your name?” Jaida managed to say, her throat dry, almost unable to form words.

To her shock, he raised a hand towards her, to the hand where her notebook and pen were. She lifted hers too, dropping the notebook and pen to the ground; reaching to take his hand, the fear she was feeling starting to dissipate, replaced by curiosity –

It was Jackie who grabbed her hand before he could, and pulled her through this man, Jaida shuddering as she passed through his body.

“Was that a ghost?” Brita asked Jackie, not looking at Jaida.

“Yeah. Just one that Jaida could see I think. I couldn’t see it. Did you see anything?”

“No.” Brita shook her head. “Jaida, you’re going in between me and Jackie now. We’re not losing you to any ghosts.”

Jaida opened her mouth to protest – and didn’t Jackie want her to be more in tune with her ability anyway? – but Brita had already spun back round and was heading down the corridor. When Jaida turned to look behind Jackie, the man was no longer there.

“Jackie,” Brita said sharply, “stop it. I’ve asked you not to.”

“To what?”

“You know what,” Brita hissed. “Stop trying to get inside my mind.”

“I’m – not?” Jackie said confusedly.

Brita turned back to them both, her eyes wild, a look Jaida didn’t recognise in her friend, but she regained her composure and nodded, turning back to the corridor where the two guest rooms were.

The guest house was not big, and there were only the four guest rooms – two on either side of the staircase – plus one larger room at the end of the right hand side. The floor was still dirty from years of neglect, but there were tracks in it now, from forensics and from their own activity yesterday.

Brita crouched to look at the doorknob, on the guest room on the right, which was not as dirty as the rest of the brass on the door – as if a hand had held it recently.

“Jai, was this the one those two students were hiding in last night?”

“No, it was the other one,” Jaida pointed to the left.

Brita straightened up.

“I know we’re not on the best terms with this … telepathic stuff right now,” she muttered, “but Jackie, can you hear anything through that room? Anything that suggests there is a person inside?”

Jackie stood perfectly still, her face pensive, brow furrowed.

“No,” she said finally, shaking her head. “But that student, that Aiden – I mean, I couldn’t hear her either, so …” Jackie shrugged, her expression becoming troubled. “The silence doesn’t convince me, that’s all I’m saying.”

“Well, no time like the present,” Brita announced, reaching to the doorknob. As carefully as possible, she turned it, and the door creaked open slowly.

Inside, the room was empty, nothing at all to indicate any presence. There was no furniture, no carpet, and only a half-broken faux chandelier seemed to show it had been inhabited at all. The window was boarded up, the boards still in place, much darker even at midday than the rest of the house.

“There’s nothing here,” Brita muttered.

“And look,” Jackie said, pointing to the ground. “There aren’t any tracks. The floor hasn’t been disturbed.”

Brita sighed. “I hate to say it, but … have we been led on?”

“What?”

Jaida looked at Brita, whose expression was unreadable.

“I’m just saying, but there’s definitely no one in this house. Jackie can’t hear anything. Maybe Gigi was never here, or just here briefly.”

“You might be right,” Jackie nodded, “the DNA could just mean that she came up the stairs and then went back down them again when she couldn’t go anywhere.”

“I think that’s the most likely scenario,” Brita agreed, nodding eagerly. “The camera being repaired obviously means we didn’t see her go into this building – or come back out. She must have left again.”

“Guys, I saw her! In that damn room that we couldn’t open!” Jaida cried, pointing to her left to the old living area behind the double doors.

“That could just be coincidence, Jai,” Brita replied.

“It never has been before!”

“Alright,” Jackie held up her hands. “We’ll go and check it out again. Just stop snapping at each other, I still have a headache from yesterday.”

The three of them walked to the double doors, still shut fast from them slamming last night.

“I still don’t hear anything, anything at all, from this room,” Jackie murmured, her ear to the wooden door.

“Any spirits Jaida?” Brita asked.

“No,” Jaida muttered, “just that guy behind us, and that woman downstairs.”

“What guy?” Brita jerked her head sharply to Jaida. “Who was it?”

“I don’t know,” Jaida shrugged, taking half a step back. “Just some guy at the top of the stairs, and some woman in the kitchen.”

“The kitchen,” Brita repeated quietly.

“You know I just saw him here, that was why you wanted me to walk in the middle!”

Jaida watched Brita’s expression become pensive, and then twist in anger. “Jackie, I said stop it!”

“I’m not doing anything!” Jackie put her hands on her hips. “Why are you so jumpy today?”

“Let’s just get out of here,” Jaida said, shaking her head. The last thing they needed was Brita and Jackie at each others’ throats for any longer. She started to walk away from them.

“Jaida,” Brita called, “you’re still going in the middle.”

“What?”

“If you see any more ghosts, you’ll have someone behind you, that’s all.”

As they all turned back to go down the staircase, the man from earlier had reappeared, and Jaida felt her steps slow down. He was still so sad, so very sad, his expression hopeless, the bruising on his neck a gruesome reminder that he was not quite as real as he appeared.

Jackie, ahead of Jaida, must have sensed her fear, as she turned back to her. “He can’t hurt you, Jaida.”

“Is there a ghost?” Brita asked.

Jaida nodded solemnly and walked forward, her legs shaking. She reached a hand behind her, wildly, and Brita took it, anchoring her.

“I got you, sis.”

Feeling a little more emboldened, Jaida walked forwards, and the man’s eyes followed her, but the closer she got, the more Jaida became curious, and not frightened. She slowed to a stop in front of him, frozen in place, while Brita pushed gently at her from behind.

“Come on, Jai, we need to leave.”

“What do you need?” Jaida’s voice was stronger this time as she addressed him, ignoring Brita’s voice. Jackie looked back at Jaida, and then in front to where this man was, but no one else could see him.

“Tell me what you need from me,” Jaida said firmly.

“Jaida!” That was Jackie, her voice frightened. “Come on!”

But Jaida’s gaze was fixed on the spirit before her, her own fear completely gone, replaced by empathy, and a desire to know more.

He raised his other hand this time, towards Jaida’s right, and Jaida felt herself raise her right hand towards his, until they touched –

And Jaida felt a tug at her back, lurching forwards, towards this man, whose hand in her right started to feel more and more solid; her mind spinning, and shutting her eyes tightly as she felt nausea rush through her with the movement.

After a few seconds, Jaida felt her stomach settle and her mind calm. She slowly opened her eyes to this man before her – now very much a live person, leaning on a complete railing.

But Brita and Jackie had both vanished.

#rpdr fanfiction #the goode case #juno #jaida essence hall #brita filter #jackie cox #detective au #supernatural au #mystery #lesbian au #black girl magic fic #s12 #diversity fic #submission #tw suicide reference

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theworldwithoutmagic · 4 years

Text

Decompression - zutara ff

Just wrote this oneshot thursday so its CONTENT HOT OFF THE PRESS.

Im fresh off a rewatch of A:TLA and I finished Southern Raiders on wednesday with a Mighty Need to write a missing scene. I was so striken by Zutara feels that I had to bang out this one shot in a single day.

Here is 3000 words of shameless enemies-to-bedsharing-trope. Set in missing scene during Southern Raiders.

I really need feedback as iv never written zutara before and idk if I have their Voices down. concrit welcome as id like to improve before a longfic. PLEASE message or comment.

i also need blogs to follow..

So here we gooooo

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Katara and Zuko stop to rest and talk about what happened that day. They get a little closer than expected. Zuko wonders how he became so lucky.

Zuko looks up from Appa’s saddle at Katara, seemingly just as determined to get back quickly as she was on the way here. She is beautiful, he thinks to himself not the first time, even now leaving the scene of an almost murder. Her wrists were flicking occasionally, bending the water in the clouds around them to give them a modicum of safety from any eyes that might look to the skies. He knows she must be exhausted at this point. He saw see the circles under her eyes hours ago. Appa himself is starting to slow down and he knows this pace can’t last forever.

“Katara, we have been flying for hours and Appa needs to rest.” He didn’t mention Katara herself. He knew without asking that she would not appreciate any comments on her ability to keep going. He hoped she might stop and process some of what happened today instead of going full speed back to their training regimen. His uncle would have said so, at least. The day was a lot more intense than even he expected.

“What we need is to get back to Aang. The comet is approaching and this was a waste of time,” Katara said.

“We won’t make it back to Aang at all if Appa collapses and we land in the middle of a fire nation village. Look at him. His eyes are starting to droop.” It was true, the bison was not at full strength. Katara did not turn around but her shoulders dropped a bit. She wouldn’t want to hurt Appa.

“So, where do you have in mind we stop? This is the middle of the fire nation and you are pretty hard to miss,“ she said.

“We can make camp in one of the many caves in this region. Look how rocky it is down there. I know that is how your gang usually hides from the fire nation. I think I see a decent spot down there right now,” he pointed down to an outcropping of rock high on a hillside, protected on all 4 sides from direct view.

Katara remained silent. “If this is some kind of trick Zuko…”

He tamped down the biting response he wanted to give. “Katara, I would not have come here with you and helped you find a firenation ship and captain just to trap you in a random cave. Appa needs rest, that’s it. So do I. and you,” He said, the last bit under his breath.

“Fine.” She said, after looking him in the eyes and finding some answer she wanted. “But only until sunrise. We don’t have time for this.” She snaps the reigns and directs Appa back around towards the overhang. He is relieved she agreed.

When they land, Zuko inspects the cave. It’s not so much of a cave as it is a large overhanging rock. It’s not deep, but big enough to hide a bison in. Unfortunately, he deduces they won’t be able to have a fire tonight. The smoke and light might attract too much attention. They will have to eat from the dried stores and sleep in the dark. He knows Katara will agree with him about the fire. Katara…

He had no idea she was so strong. He keeps thinking back to the sea raven ship. He is pretty sure she bended a living person. Not supposed to be possible, but he guesses there is much he does not know about water bending.

Even now, her back is ramrod straight and she is standing in front of her bedroll a little lost looking now that they arent moving towards a goal. He promised to help her on this mission but he is the last person who knows how to help her with the aftermath. He isn’t sure what he expected from this trip.. things went very differently than he imagined. She needs to talk her brother or Aang or literally anyone other than him, he thinks. He considers that he might be a monster for even suggesting this murder mission as he leads Appa under the rocky overhang.

With the Bison in the “cave” with them, there is not a ton of room. He puts his bedroll by Katara’s where there is a little space and dry ground and pulls out the last jerky they have. Its stale and he thinks he can start to taste the beginnings of mold on his piece. They were preserved in a hurry and it’s been a little too long since the group resupplied. But its food and it’s all they have. He holds one out to Katara.

“Uh, you should eat something.” He tries, “It has been a long day. We have a lot of flying to do to get back to Aang.” Damnit, but it’s not just about the flying. He doesn’t know how to breech this subject.

“Of course we do, Zuko.” She whips around, “I am fine. I didn’t even want to stop.” She still takes the jerky and rips into it. She finally leans back against the wall of the cave, sitting on her bedroll. He watches her face and almost panics. Her eyes are shining with unshed tears and she is nowhere near sleep tonight. It races through his mind again that she faced her mother’s murderer today and is somehow still standing.

“Ok.” is all he says for a while. He has to say something else. What would uncle say? What would the Avatar say? He doesn’t know. He knows she might need more than he can give. In the end he says nothing and silently berates himself. He knows sleep will be a long time coming for both of them.

It starts to rain. He looks out of the wet, terrible cave into the storm. The rain is beautiful in a way. It runs in shining rivulets down the other pale rocks, the nearly full moon reflecting in the puddles, and he tries to imagine what it would be like to bend water instead of this horrible fire. He starts talking and hopes he’s not ruining things again.

“The rain is nice. I’ve always loved the sound. As a child I never hated the rain as much as the other fire benders in the palace. The rain restored the land. Brought life back to the burn scars in the garden from our training.” Then, as an afterthought, “The turtleducks loved it, too.” He thinks that’s what got her to speak.

“It never rained in the south pole. Always snow. I didn’t see the rain until I left with Aang. Standing in the rain for the first time and feeling the pull of each raindrop at the southern air temple is one of my favorite memories.” Katara said. She is staring into the growing tempest outside now too. “I always hoped I would get to see it. My mother used to tell me about the rain from her travels with dad.”

She is sitting against the wall very close to him. The thought crosses his mind that if he scooted over, he could reach out and touch her. He doesn’t think he should. Instead, he quietly, so quietly hes not sure she can hear it over the rain, asks, “Do you want to tell me about her?” He closes his eyes and waits for the anger.

“I would like that.” She whispers. “My mom was not a bender. Her father and both of her sisters were. She lost them all to the fire nation before I was born.” More pain and suffering at the hands of his people, he thinks to himself. “My mother was still powerful in her own way. I remember she helped our tribe remember how to create houses without water benders. There was a while we thought our tribe could not survive without benders to keep the ice at bay. How would we do anything without benders to make new ice houses? But she figured it out.”

Zuko realized all over again what cruelties the fire nation had forced on her people. Taking away the benders of a tribe completely reliant on it for survival. It was only through sheer force of will they were still here. He lets her continue.

“My mother was the best cook in the village. Sokka thinks my cooking is good, but I learned only a little for her before she die- before she was killed.” Tears leaked from her eyes now and her voice shook. “The worst part is Sokka is right. I barely remember her now.”

“I’m sorry. I know it’s not enough, especially from me. I really hoped that by taking you to her killer I could help you. Help you get closure and a bit of payback. I see now that was a mistake and I’ve made it worse” He chokes out. The whole trip was a mistake. She would never trust him now either, being reminded of all the sins of the fire nation.

“It wasn’t a mistake. Zuko I thought that by coming here I could finally get revenge. Aang was right about that. I was not seeking justice or closure. If my mother’s killer had been that man on the ship, I think I would have killed him.”

The man she had.. bended. He knew she was not lying right now. “Katara, whatever you did to him, he.. he deserved it.”

“No, he didn’t.” She was still trying to hold back her tears and failing. “I bended his blood Zuko. A technique I swore I would never use. I was just so angry! He had the gall to stand there on the ship meant for raiding my people and claim he didn’t know what I was talking about. Probably just coming from another murderous raid against another town. There was water everywhere, we were on a ship! But I reached inside him and took something that should never be taken. I could do that right now to you, or anyone else.”

Zuko’s eyes widened. Blood bending. He hopes that man never realizes what exactly she did to him. The fire nation would not stop until every waterbender was extinct if they knew that was possible. He is in awe of the woman beside him. “Katara, I think you are amazing.” He blurts out, before he can even explain.

She barks out a half laugh, “What? Zuko you SAW it-”

“Yes, and that is the first time I have ever seen it. Iv chased you all over the world and seen you fight many times. All those times, you didn’t use that power. Do you know what the fire nation would be doing with that power if they had it? Marching people right into prison camps. Stopping a whole fleet of human hearts before the battle even starts.” He meets her eyes now, “But this blood bending you can do… you didn’t even hurt the man with it. If there is one place its justified to lose yourself, I’d say on your mother’s killer is one. The restraint you show in not using it against every one of your enemies, your enemies who have murdered your family for generations, is more than I have ever had. I would use any weapon at my disposal against Azula or my father if I thought it would give me an edge. You’re nothing but good and even more powerful and amazing than I thought.” He means it. and he hopes she can hear it in his voice.

She only cries more and he thinks he’s made things worse, his eyes close and his heart drops- then he feels her hand on his shoulder. “Is this ok? Zuko, I.. I don’t want to sit alone right now.” She looks exhausted in the weak light of the moon filtering through the storm as she leans into him. He almost forgets to answer.

“Yeah, this is fine, this is.. this is fine.” Zuko doesn’t know what to do. He has never been able to comfort anyone with his touch. He slides his arm around her shoulders because thats what it seems like she wants. She exhales shakily and turns further into him and his heart skips a beat. She is warm in the chilly air and clinging to him like she needs it to breath. She is almost in his lap and he has already never been this close with anyone.

“I’m not as strong as you think Zuko.” she whispers into his shoulder. “I’m so sorry for how angry I’ve been at you. I knew this whole time, ever since the South Pole, there has been good in you too. I just didn’t want to be wrong again, after the crystal caves so I lashed out. I was fighting my instincts to trust you. This journey just proves to me again that I was right from the beginning.” A pause, her tears coming harder. “I’m sorry I’m such a mess right now.”

“Il do whatever you need of me Katara.” He says quietly, instead of what he wants to say. I need this too. You are stronger than I think. Don’t ever leave this spot. He tightens his embrace and she does too.

They listen to the storm outside. Finally, Katara sobs openly against him. He rubs circles on her back and lets her cry. He doesnt press her to talk anymore. He breaths into her hair and can’t pinpoint what he has done to earn this trust, but he will do everything in his power to make sure she is never this upset again. If he has to personally kill every fire bender who has wronged her. Eventually her sobs clear and she relaxes, still not letting go of his shirt. They fall into steady silence, with only the sound of the rain outside, and he can only think of how wonderful it feels to be a comfort to another person instead of a source of pain.

It gets steadily chillier in the cave and he eventually releases her to reach for her blankets and pull them over her shoulders. He’s not going to push her off anytime soon, he will let himself freeze to death and not sleep a wink if she needs it. When he brings his arms back around, Katara still doesn’t speak and pulls them down from their sitting position leaning against the wall. His heart is about to beat out of his chest and he knows she can probably feel it. She pulled them so he’s lying down on his bedroll and placed her head on his chest like she means to sleep this way.

Zuko is absolutely frozen. One of her knees is resting on his thigh, her arms are around his torso, and she is so soft. He wants to curl around her. He wants to express something unnamed.

“Zuko, you home?” He can hear the smile in her voice. At least she is feeling better, his racing mind supplies. “I hope this is ok too. Please.”

He stiltedly brings his arms back around her now prone form. He lets one of his long legs tangle with hers. His shirt rides up and her fingers are quick to find a bit of his skin. He doesn’t know if this is right but it feels like it is. He sighs and tries to live in this moment forever before he speaks and ruins it.

“Katara, I just don’t want you to regret any of this tomorrow and realize that I’m the enemy again. I don’t know if I can take it if you hate me again tomorrow.” He admits. He pulls her even closer anyway. Every part of their bodies touching. Gods she feels so good against him. Like she was made to be there. Why has he never done this with anyone before? “And iv never…” He tries to pick the right words. “I’ve never been this vulnerable with anyone.”

“I promise you that I won’t hate you again. I’ve wanted to trust you for so long and truthfully, I already did. I wouldn’t have come with you if I didn’t.” Katara said, “This was not easy for you either. Offering to take me across the world where we planned to murder a man from your country in cold blood. I would have never known who killed my mother without you and no one else in my entire life would have come with me for this. Aang and Sokka never understood what I needed and they still don’t. I love them both but I knew you wouldn’t judge me no matter what I chose, even if I was rude to you this whole time.”

“I could never judge any choice you make.” He shivered and lowered his face to her hair. “I’ve admired you since I met you. Even when I sent pirates after you. I really hoped you would choose my side then. I’m glad you didn’t now.”

Katara seems embarrassed for a moment and squirms. He jerks slightly when a knee brushes an intimate part of him and he feels a slight grin from her against his shoulder. He has no idea if that was an accident but his head is spinning. She speaks, “I know fire nation royalty aren’t particularly touchy feely.” She runs a slender hand down his ribcage and he struggles not to let on how much the sensations are affecting him. “but my people are. and it has been what seems like a lifetime since anyone has just let me cry and comforted me like a human. Even when I was still at home.. our village lost so many of its softer customs to the demands of war.”

“The only people who have ever even hugged me in my entire life were my mother and my uncle, Katara.” He admits, embarrassed too. “I.. you.. this is nice.” he settles on. Nice doesn’t even begin to cover it.

Katara only hums. He feels her sigh contentedly and hopes she is done teasing him. Katara is pushed against every plane of his body and he thinks his heart might still fail from how lucky he is to have earned her trust despite everything between them. Her breaths slow until he is sure she is asleep. The rain still falls outside and he watches her and he watches the rain and just feels until finally the warmth and contentment begins to pull him toward sleep. His last thought is about how he hopes he will get the chance to do this again one day… tomorrow they have to go back to the Avatar and face their destinies.

#zutara #zutara ff #zutara fanfiction #atla #avatar #pls respond #im a decade late #is the fandom still alive

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pr0sciutt0 · 5 years

Note

I know you're probably busy with requests and stuff, but could u please do a possessive! and/or yandere!rohan?

hey anon. im really. feeling yanderes atm.

warning for violence and EXTREMELY DUBIOUS CONSENT this is gross lbr

The threat of what Rohan could do to you is always enough to get you to obey.

Oh, your heart aches and it twists and beats in your chest, hammering against your ribcage, and revulsion gathers in the back of your throat as you uselessly wish you could disobey him - but at least, right now, you have some modicum of control over what your body is doing. The idea of Rohan opening you up again, emerald eyes determined, writing within you and robbing you of what little agency you still possess-

"I will not disobey Rohan Kishibe."

That is what spurs you on to move when he tells you to, to get into the poses for reference that he asks you to, to wear the expensive clothes he picks out even though you can't help but feel that they're a terrible waste on somebody like you. That's what spurs you on to kiss him when he beckons you with his finger and to stay very still when his hands skim your back, enjoying the warmth and the softness of your skin.

At first, you'd been flattered that you'd somehow managed to gather the attention of Rohan Kishibe. When he'd asked questions of you and his lips had quirked into a smile and he'd offered you his hand, asking if perhaps you'd like to get dinner together, your heart had hammered in your chest and you'd briefly allowed yourself to imagine a life with Rohan.

The one you had imagined, of course, had been nothing like the nightmare you're living.

You'd thought that perhaps his coolness would thaw, maybe that there was somebody secretly sweet hiding within - maybe he was shy, you'd thought. Maybe he just needs someone to unlock the gentleness inside him. Maybe he's been hurt before and that's why he keeps people at arm's length--

You had seen, though, a flash of anger in those eyes when the waiter's eyes at the expensive restaurant had brushed across your face with interest. You'd been flattered then, too! That Rohan could be jealous of anybody else when surely he knows that he's always the most handsome man in the room.

You would soon learn it was not so much that he was jealous that somebody else was interested in you. You would soon learn that his anger was far more to do with the disgust that somebody else would dare to look at his property like that.

And that's what you are.

Rohan collects beautiful things. His entire house is filled with interesting relics; he paints them and draws them and hoards them to himself, surrounding himself with things that spark his inspiration. You are simply . . .

"The jewel of my collection," Rohan breathes, his fingers sliding across your throat and feeling where your pulse is fluttering wildly in fear. You hope he mistakes it for something else. You hope he mistakes it for excitement over your closeness. At first, you'd tried to speak to him gently and dissuade him and understand him. It had quickly made itself known to you, though, that Rohan found nothing wrong with treating you like an object of art for his own private gallery.

You dislike yourself, even now. When Rohan speaks about the way the light hits your eyes or how your hair feels beneath his touch or the lines of your body, you can't help but wonder what it is he sees in you. You can't help but wish he could see you the way you see yourself - he might be disgusted by you, but at least in his disgust you wouldn't be so trapped by him.

Rohan does not admit to his folly, though. Rohan does not believe in his ability to commit a folly.

And beneath it all, lurking, is that ability. The way that he could open you up and order you to do whatever he might wish. All of the possibilities for punishment.

"I could tell you to tear out your fingernails," Rohan reminds you, and the chilling threat makes you think of all of the more awful parts of Pink Dark Boy. Rohan's imagination is a dark place. And though he's genteel with you, whilst you're obeying him, you know better than anyone that his gentility is a mask for what's lurking beneath. "I could tell you to drown yourself. I could tell you to kill, darling, and you'd ask me nothing more than what the murder implement should be--" He's right. You swallow back the protestation and the begging.

Rohan smiles, and the sight of it makes you feel sick. He leans forward and presses a kiss onto your forehead, heedless of the thin sheen of sweat that's gathered there from your fear at him being so close. You swear you see the dart of his pink tongue, tasting what you've left behind on his lips.

(And you know that there'll be a lipstick mark on your forehead, searing you like a brand, in Rohan's own shade of viridian).

"Go and put on the dress," Rohan says, his voice almost a warning. "Let me paint you."

You have a moment, in which you could disobey. In which you could struggle and rally away from him. You want to do that! You want to get away from Rohan Kishibe forever.

But you can't. And you allow yourself the one brief reprieve of a moment in which you could make any decision, before you nod at him and turn to leave.

After all.

Even if you know that you cannot disobey, surely it's better if you leave the illusion that you could in place for just one more day.

#writing #gender neutral reader #neutral pronouns #dub con for ts #yandere for ts #rohan kishibe #Anonymous

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diveronarpg · 5 years

Photo

Congratulations, KYLIE! You’ve been accepted for the role of RICHARD III. Admin Rosey: My favorite thing is when a line from the character’s biography is highlighted -- especially that singular line because it was one of my favorite that demonstrated Ronan’s humanity, like you noted. Yes, he’s a terrible, awful human being but the nature of his corruption is something so centrally highlighted in the play -- and now in the way that you write him. Kylie, you have no idea how absolutely over-the-moon I am that you decided to apply, and for Richard III no less! Your writing is so refreshing in its cadence and beat, it perfectly accents Ronan and what he has to offer. Truly. Absolutely. Ecstatic. Please read over the checklist and send in your blog within 24 hours.

WELCOME TO THE MOB.

OUT OF CHARACTER

Alias | kylie

Age | 25

Preferred Pronouns | she/her

Activity Level | I would say I’m about a 5-6, I’m currently finishing up my schooling so I’m not taking as many course hours.

Timezone | MST

How did you find the rp? | i’ve been stalking for a while now, finally worked up the courage!

Current/Past RP Accounts | n/a

IN CHARACTER

Character | Richard III / Ronan Ivarsson

What drew you to this character? | When I first read Ronan’s bio I was reminded of a quote from Les MIserables, that I thought summed up my thoughts about him pretty well–”He was a charming young man, who was capable of being terrible.” I was really attracted to the dichotomy that exists within him–the difference between his public face, the face of the politician, and who he really is, the darkness of his true self. I liked that he seemed capable of moving between the two with ease–that he could placate a crowd of people with only his words and force of personality, and keep the fact that he is capable of doing terrible things for the sake of his own advancement hidden from the people he supposedly “serves”.

I was also really interested in this particular line--”It was not because his heart was made of stone, though, it was because he enjoyed, far too much, how the dilapidated organ seemed to squeeze merrily when they said his name.” I liked that there was a human element to him–that there’s an element of himself that he has a hard time controlling. That despite being cold and intimately familiar with his own darkest instincts, he has a heart that still beats wildly and craves the attention of other human beings, that at one time, for a brief fraction of a second, felt something akin to love for someone else.

What is a future plot idea you have in mind for the character? |

AND SEEM A SAINT, WHEN MOST I PLAY THE DEVIL

Ronan has no interest in being subservient to anyone, but he’s also aware of the fact that in order to make any kind of advancement within the Montague ranks, he’s going to have to play their game to a certain extent. I’m interested in how his two faces would work within the context of the Montagues–How long will he be able to play at being the loyal soldier before the enormity of his ambition starts to get in the way? Has he ever really been good at hiding his true nature? Being in the mob would be an interesting litmus test for how well his carefully crafted facades would stand up against real and intense scrutiny.

SINCE I CANNOT PROVE A LOVER

I’d love for Ronan to have to reckon with the fact that his heart isn’t made of stone, and that for a half second he believed that he could have actually been in love with someone else. What was it about Lucien that caught Ronan, whose heart is so firmly fixed on himself, off guard in that moment? There’s clearly something about him that Ronan can’t let go of–why is he so intent on keeping the man that could so easily destroy him so close to his chest? I’d love to explore the mutual destruction of their relationship further, because I feel like it’s the one area of his life where Ronan actually feels really vulnerable. It’s the thing in his life he has the least control over, no real contingency plan for–ever since their eyes locked across that room, he’s never been able to plan for Lucien’s role in his life.

THIS GLORIOUS SUN OF YORK

I’d like to see how Ronan would react if he faced some kind of concequences for his past actions–specifically the murders of his parents, which set him on his fated path. I think that Ronan only belives in real religion when it’s convienent for him, but the belief that he has been set on some kind of divine path since he was young is a fundemental part of his being–if an obstruction appeared on that path, would it shake his faith in both a religious sense, and his faith in himself? I’d love to explore the relationship–or lack thereof–he has with his family, how the way his parents views of him might have shaped how he views himself with regards to his disability, or how he might have strived to overcome their views of him. His name is the reason he is able to get his foot inside of so many doors, the reason he is able to dress his body in the finest fabrics, the reason he is able to walk his divine path–and yet he hated the two people who gave it to him. How does he feel about that legacy?

Are you comfortable with killing off your character? | Yes! Ronan lives his life in such a way that I think he’s prepared for that eventuality.

IN DEPTH

What is your favorite place in Verona?

The smile that Ronan gives at the question is a practiced one, designed exactly for moments such as this–a small quirk at the corner of his lips, just enough teeth. Enough to give the general idea of interest and a certain level of enthusiasm, and to hide the quick shaft of iritation that shoots up the curve of his spine and into his shoulderblades. The truth of the matter is he has no favorite place in Verona–places are just vessels for people and the actions that occur within them. He’s never understood sentimentality in a larger sense, but it seems particularly like a waste of time when it’s applied to something as inconcequential as a particular arrangement of bricks or wood. However, he can’t say that to a reporter–constituents wouldn’t take kindly to their councilman brushing off their beloved city as buidlings with arbitrary meanings assigned to them.

“That’s easy,” He says with a wave of his hand and a chuckle. “The Hotel Emilia, where I met my husband Lucien. How can I answer any other place than where I met the love of my life? That’s not to say I don’t enjoy other spots in the city as well–the library has a special place in my heart as well.”

What does your typical day look like?

“Can any day ever be considered typical in Verona?” He laughs and lifts his shoulders in an attempt at a shrug–it’s a painful motion, but he does the same thing he’s done since childhood when he didn’t want to give away his position at the top of the stairs–he bites down hard on his tongue to keep the sound from escaping.

“I’m usually up before my husband.” Because he sleeps in a bed in one of six apartments scattered throughout the city on any given night, because Ronan’s bones have never known comfort, even in sleep. “I like to check the news, make sure I know what’s going on in the city and around the world. Answer emails, texts, sometimes I get so wrapped up in things that I forget breakfast entirely.” Because you cannot make plans for battle without first knowing your enemy as intimately as you know yourself, because the best performance is a well informed one. “And then depending on the day I’m either off to my weekly physical therapy appointments or straight to work. I’m a bit boring I’m afraid–always a little too focused on my work for my own good.” Because he is born to do it, because he does it better than anyone else in this city, because there is no difference between divine will and the will of Ronan Ivarsson.

What has been your biggest mistake thus far?

His muscles tense for a fraction of a second as he processes the question–an imperceptible hesitation unless you knew to look for it. He makes a mental note to double check the publication this reporter claims that he works for, before leaning back in his chair and tapping his fingers idly against the arm of his chair. He doesn’t believe in mistakes, mistakes would imply wrong steps and Ronan Ivarsson does not make wrong steps–every decision he has ever made has been to serve his own purposes in the best way possible, and the fact that he is sititng in this office is proof that it has all been nessecary, that his actions have been ordained by a higher power. He resolutely does not look at the silver band on his finger, does not probe the uselessness and empty symbology of that particular object. “Any moment where my constituents have felt like I have not been representing their interests to the best of my ability could be considered a mistake, but I have to be honest with you–I see mistakes as starting points for learning, and making better decisions. All of the mistakes that I’ve made have helped me to become a better man, and a better leader for Verona.”

What has been the most difficult task asked of you?

Bending the knee to Damiano Montague, without question. A necessary evil, but evil all the same.

“Making the best possible decisions for the people of Verona. The trust of the people is the most important thing an official can have, and I want to do everything in my power to prove to them that they made the correct decision when they gave it to me. It’s not a responsibility I take lightly.”

What are your thoughts on the war between the Capulets and the Montagues?

It’s the first question all day that has considered a real modicum of thought, that has required Ronan to choose his next words with care. He leans foward so he is better able to clasp his hands together on top of his desk, even though the motion pulls at the muscles in his shoulders in a way that is uncomfortable. “So often in these kinds of conflicts there are no real winners, are there? My only thoughts are for the people of Verona, and my sincere hope that they do not suffer the concequences of a fight they have no stakes in.” Soon enough they will both bend the knee to me. Soon enough their blood will mix as it flows through the streets, as it slips between the spaces of my fingers.

Extras: If you have anything else you’d like to include (further headcanons, an inspo tag, a mock blog, etc), feel free to share it here! This is OPTIONAL.

pinterest board x

inspo tag x

#accepted #accepted: richard iii

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killjoy-loveit · 5 years

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Just a Dream Away

A/N: I would like to clarify that everything written in this story is complete fiction and isn’t to be taken as a true portrayal of reality. This is written in first person (my comfort zone when it comes to writing), and has been left with an open ending, which means I may write another part to this. Also, I’ve been working on this for approximately a month and it was loosely inspired by Saw You In A Dream- The Japanese House.

Excerpt (in place of a summary bc you guys know I suck at writing them): He would just laugh lightly, the adorable sound causing me to giggle along as he pushed the dark brown locks of hair back behind his ear. I never got his name, not once in the month I’d been having dreams of him. Tonight was no different, as I was more occupied with conversing with this quiet, lighthearted guy that was occupying my dreams at night and thoughts during the day.

Word Count: 1,661

Genre: Fluff, internal angst***

***Trigger warning for those who suffer panic attacks, one is described within this piece.

There I was yet again, walking in this ethereal dream world. Every night sleep overtook me it seemed that I ended up in the same place, meeting the same guy over and over. No matter what he was there like clockwork, waiting for me on the edge of the dirt path splitting from the main road. Always with a smile gracing his features, making my own light up in response. Something about him made me forget my woes, letting them slip to the back of my mind as we wandered.

It was always perfect, it was a dream after all. The grass growing alongside the path the two of us walked nightly was forever green and remained the perfect length, never needing to be trimmed because it had grown too high. Trees were spaced out beside the path, sometimes seeming to follow a pattern, and others like they had just sprung up of their own free will. Pale blues painted the sky overhead, joined by white, almost iridescent, wispy clouds. Light breezes swished past every so often, rustling my companions hair, blowing it into his face.

He would just laugh lightly, the adorable sound causing me to giggle along as he pushed the dark brown locks of hair back behind his ear. I never got his name, not once in the month I’d been having dreams of him. Tonight was no different, as I was more occupied with conversing with this quiet, lighthearted guy that was occupying my dreams at night and thoughts during the day. To be honest I cared more about knowing him, he intrigued me, than knowing his name. Sure, names are important but only if you have the opportunity to call that person by their name. But I knew I’d never have this chance.

More likely than not he was just a figment conjured up by my imagination, fueled by my desires to meet someone that interested me for once. It saddened me, knowing that the person I was pining after wasn’t real, more like a ninety-nine percent chance he wasn’t real. After all it wasn’t very likely for my mind to conjure up some real guy I had no recollection of, yet I felt would fit my life perfectly. Although this was no time to be focusing on such disillusioned thoughts, I had to remind myself that these dreams were all I had, so I needed to embrace them while they lasted. As it was, I wasn’t sure how much longer the dreams would last, never before had I dreamed of the same place and person for more than a week.

Sadly, I was aware when I began to drift from this unconscious dream state to consciousness, as the world my mind had built started to fade before my eyes. Naturally I wanted to scream and cry out at having to leave what I have come to deem my safe haven. Instead, all that I allowed myself was a heavy sigh and a singular tear. Begrudgingly, I slid out of bed and got ready for the day. Throughout my morning routine, getting dressed, brushing my teeth and hair, putting on makeup, he was the only thing on my mind. He took over my headspace, filling every nook and cranny of my brain, every thought.

The way he’d cover his mouth when he laughed too hard and the corners of his eyes would crinkle in amusement. How at first he’d seemed so quiet and maybe a little reserved, but then as the dreams continued, I saw him relax and let his real personality through. In fact, the way it happened seemed so real, eerily similar to how a person would behave in real life. Although that was probably due to the fact that the human brain is capable of conjuring up your deepest desires and showing them to you in your sleep. Kind of like when you have a dream about someone you’re trying to forget, but still have feelings for, thus the subconscious pulls them forward in your dream.

To be quite honest, I felt a little pitiful that I was potentially falling for a nonexistent dream person. At least, I thought he was nonexistent, a mere figment of my imagination, a culmination of my loneliness and desire for someone who actually understood me in some way.

As I walked down the crowded sidewalk, anxiously fidgeting with my purse strap, I realized that since I was ten minutes later than usual, meaning the normal coffee place you go to would be crowded. And as always, with so many people in such small quarters, tempers were bound to rise, and tempers meant outbursts. Outbursts meant confrontations and yelling, lots of yelling. It makes me uncomfortable, seeing as how I’m typically one to blend into the background. Briefly I considered skipping my usual cup of coffee before heading onto campus, but I decided I couldn’t let my fear drive me. So, with a huff of determination and a quick roll of my shoulders, I entered the cafe.

My heart was pounding the second I stepped inside, upon seeing how long the line was and how many people were actually crammed into the small space. Logically, I could tell that there was still quite a bit of room around each person, giving each one their own modicum of space. But at this point I had stopped being logical and approximate foot- give or take some inches- of space between each person, was shrunk down to the point it seemed everyone was all over each other. I almost turned around and walked right out of there, unwilling to face this today, but once again I steeled myself in this decision. Sometimes things are scary and you just need to get through them by choosing to do so, not because someone was making you, and this is what I was deciding to do.

Except, well, this decision was one that was quite difficult to stick to. Especially once the line had moved significantly and I was in the middle, completely surrounded by people. It was like I could feel the walls start to close around me, and my throat constricted, relieving me of the ability to take in a normal breath. This caused my chest to tighten and the edges of my vision to go dark and hazy. I knew what was going on, I had apparently pushed myself too far and was now paying the consequences for it. The solution to my problem was clear, remove myself from the situation. Leave the cafe.

Which is exactly what I did. Although, it was in no graceful manner, I barely managed to stumble out without bumping into anyone, which I knew would cause me to go into full on hysterics. Once I finally made it outside, I moved around to the edge of the building where there was less foot traffic. This gave me the space I needed to shut my eyes, take in deep breaths, and try to calm down. It took a few minutes, but with the deep breathing and going to my mental safe haven, I had almost managed to completely calm down. That’s when it happened, I felt a hand meet my shoulder. One that was large, warm, oddly comforting, and somehow felt familiar.

“Hey, I saw you leave that cafe a little disoriented. Are you okay?”

That voice, I knew that voice. This was the voice I had wished a million times over belonged to an actual, real, human being, rather than just one my subconscious had created. The voice I heard echoing in my thoughts with odd remarks and witty statements. A voice whose laugh seemed to oppose it so strongly, and yet fit so perfectly. This voice belonged to the man who I thought only existed in my head. I had to be mistaken. There was no possible way, right? With the strong belief that I had to be imagining that this random guy’s voice only sounded like the figment of a guy in my head, I turned around.

The breath I had been so carefully holding was knocked free from my lungs at the sight of him. It was him! He was there, standing right in front of me, a concerned look etched on his face. I was in the middle of telling myself that I must have seen him somewhere before, which is why my brain latched onto his image as the person to create to ease my loneliness, when he interrupted my thoughts.

“It’s you!” He exclaimed, eyes wide.

“M-me?”

“You’re the girl from my dream!”

“W-what?”

The light in his eyes dimmed at my stammered question, as if he expected me to immediately agree that I was indeed the girl from his dreams.

“I know it’s you. You have a scar on the bottom of your foot from when your brother was trying to fix the stairs but left a nail up on one of them. Your favorite book is the Great Gatsby because you love the little hidden meanings in things, how there are lessons to be learned from it. I know that you love the smell of lavender and eucalyptus because it makes you feel relaxed. The one thing I don’t know, is your name.”

As he’d kept talking, the determination in his voice keying me up, I realized either I was dreaming again, or this was real. He was really here or I was finally losing it. Because everything he said was true, everything he said were things I had told him in my dreams.

“I didn’t think you were real.” I murmured.

“I thought the same thing.”

“I’m Aera, and now you know my name.” I say, giggling lightly.

“Now I do.” He says with a smile. “Mine is Hwiyoung.”

“I’m confused about something though.”

“What are you confused about?”

“How come we were both having dreams with each other in them? Were they even actually dreams?”

#sf9 #sf9 hwiyoung #sf9 fanfic #sf9 hwiyoung fanfic #hwiyoung #sf9 scenarios #hwiyoung scenarios #sf9 hwiyoung scenarios

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foxofthedesert · 5 years

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One Green Apple, a RedQueen story

Prologue (Ao3 Link)

The writing of a new, monumental page in history begins with one green apple that changes not only one world but two. What might be an absurd notion to the rational thinker will be proven as unequivocally true with a single bite of what appears to be an ordinary piece of fruit. In time, that seemingly innocuous act will be universally viewed as the impetus for momentous events spanning two disparate realms, events that will resonate into the future far beyond the capacity for any contemporary prognosticator to grasp.

To arrive at the pivotal fulcrum upon which this story rests, we must begin with a recounting of the fortuitous meeting between the axial figures of our narrative. One is a humble heroine, whose ferocious and loyal heart possesses a unique ability to see the good in others, which gets her into as much trouble with miscreants as it endears her to those she gently coaxes out of the darkness and back into the light. The other is an ignoble figure of ill repute, perhaps the most infamous villain of her generation whose dastardly feats have made an indelible imprint upon the collective memory of a nation. Inspired by a devotion that surpasses any arbitrary boundaries of tradition and which challenges the limits of human experience, these two remarkable women will prove erroneous the condescension of their numerous detractors. Together, they will labor together to build a kingdom which will serve as the linchpin of an alliance that spans from the fabled realm of Misthaven to the enchanted foreign fields of Oz.

The extraordinary tale of the Queens of Misthaven begins with a highly anticipated report from a reliable source in Queen Regina's intelligence network: Snow White has been spotted. Details indicate the outlaw princess has been sheltering in a village to the north in order to recuperate from minor injuries incurred during a recent run in with a roving knot of brigands.

Unfortunately by the time Regina's spy entered the village, the notorious outlaw was mobile again and preparing to escape her jurisdiction via the mountain range nearby. There a narrow, hazardous pass terminates less than half a mile short of the border. On the other side, freedom awaits Snow within the ordinarily unfriendly confines of the realm ruled by King George.

No doubt that snide bastard will make an exception for Snow just to spite me, Regina thinks, seething at the possibility of her hated enemy escaping into the welcoming arms of another, albeit less important, nemesis. With no time to waste to prevent this catastrophe, she hastily organizes a platoon of her finest soldiers in a field to the southeast of the Dark Palace.

The sky overhead is a brilliant blue, white puffy clouds in various whimsical shapes dancing through the atmosphere. There is a slight chill in the air that indicates the onset of autumn. Soon enough, winter will blanket the land with freezing temperatures and a fine, perpetual layer of white.

The news has come just in time. I hate chasing fugitives in the snow. She almost smiles at the thought. Snow in the snow has always held a strangely fond connotation for her outside of the amusing pun.

When Snow was a child, Regina would often venture outside with the young princess to watch her build snowmen and make snow angels or toss snowballs at the few friends she kept from the noble class that occupied the castle with the royal family. After Regina's wedding, Leopold essentially foisted his daughter upon her, which only reinforced the widespread view of their marriage – that it was little more than a convenient arrangement for his sporadic pleasure and general relief, both of which came at Regina's expense. Most of the time she hated her husband for his lack of parental responsibility. Bad enough that she had to let him touch her in places only Daniel ever had. Forcing her to become primary caretaker to a spoiled, daft, annoying princess was adding insult to injury. Occasionally, though, when Snow had no one to play with, Regina would join her stepdaughter in the frozen fun. Those rare outings were some of the few good memories she has of raising Snow. But because they also give her a minuscule reason to reconsider her vendetta, she does not often reminisce upon them. Best to forget there was ever a time she might have loved Snow lest she lose even an ounce of her conviction to kill the insipid brat.

"The traitor Snow White has been located," she tells her assembled troops from her regale perch atop Rocinante.

The company stands in formation before her, proud and grave with their weapons at the ready. These men are not only her most skilled but are also her most loyal. To the last, they are grim-faced and battle-tested soldiers of steely determination, none of whom retain any love for the deposed House of White. All of them lost friends or family to Leopold's secret excesses or had justice denied them by the blatant whitewashing of crimes committed by his many loyal sycophants. Snow, to them, is no rightful heir but a living reminder of their grief and rage. For that reason alone, she trusts all of them to pursue their quarry without mercy.

"She will be taking the pass between our realm and that of King George in order to escape justice," she goes on as the men listen intently. "While George has no love for the White family, he has even less for me. Thus, he will surely offer her sanctuary as a means to goad me. It goes without saying, then, that the outlaw must not under any circumstances be allowed to cross the border on the other side of the mountain. Your orders are to apprehend her alive, not necessarily unharmed, and then bring her to me."

"What of her rumored compatriot? That freakish girl that murdered half of Perrault. What do we do with her?" says Captain Renford, a grizzled survivor of many bloody conflicts.

Disregarding the exaggeration and contempt with which he spat out his inquiry, Regina gives him a dark smile. Ah, yes. The werewolf, she muses to herself. What, indeed, shall I do with that most fascinating morsel? She has long desired to catch a glimpse of Snow's mythical sidekick. According to hearsay among the peasantry, the girl is largely to be credited with Snow's continued survival. While all good rumors are rooted in at least a minimal amount of truth, this one has been verified more than once.

Many of her sorties against Snow have been thwarted by the great beast that has assumed a role as the exiled princess's protector. As might be obvious, this continual interference makes the werewolf a thorn in her side, as is anyone else brave or stupid enough to ally with the bane of her existence. For the crime of aiding and abetting alone she should order the girl's immediate execution. Yet for reasons beyond comprehension, she is inclined to spare so unique a quarry if only to satisfy a highly piqued curiosity.

During her reign, Regina has encountered a handful of the ancient magical species. None of them proved worthy of her time or continued interest, as they were either wholly given over to their animalistic compulsions and lacking even a modicum of self-control or intelligence or both. Thus they were of no use to her. But from what she has gathered via tales spread far and wide of Snow's friend, her peerless beauty, prowess in battle, unshakable loyalty, and impressive mastery over her condition make her not only special but of immense potential value. Few, if any, are as capable of appropriately appreciating the attributes Snow's wolf brings to the table quite like Regina can. There is also the not-so-insignificant consideration that such a weapon under her sway, either via persuasion or forceful subjugation, would be an advantage she would be a moron to dismiss.

And yet her somewhat irrational if not unreasonable compulsion to acquire Snow's werewolf can never come at the cost of her revenge. No matter what must be sacrificed, she is not about to allow this welcome stroke of good fortune to go to waste.

"Try to do the same," she answers the commander after a brief pause to consider her options. "Apprehend the wolf if possible but kill her if you must. Capturing Snow White is to be your primary concern. All other interests are irrelevant."

Renford bows his head submissively, ever the obedient soldier. "As you command, Your Majesty."

Regina's lips turn up at seeing her orders are well received. "Very well, then. Let us be off." She lifts her hands to the sky, summoning vast amounts of energy to teleport herself, her prized steed, and her troops to the base of the mountain pass.

Upon arrival, none of the men stumble – they are well accustomed by now to magical transportation. Perfectly composed, their eyes are swiftly upon her, awaiting further orders without a hint of trepidation.

Up here at elevation the pleasant weather at the Dark Palace seems a distant memory. Snow falls in spurts of large crystalline flakes and the temperature is low enough that it sticks to the rocky ground. The sky is overcast with huge billowing gray clouds, indicating the precipitation is unlikely to do anything but increase in volume and intensity. Likely within hours, the whole pass will be blanketed ankle deep with snow. Lovely. Much as she wishes for clear skies and warm weather, though, her enthusiasm for the pending victory is unaffected.

"You will be taking a company of men up the pass, Captain," she begins relaying her more detailed instructions. "I will linger behind so that I can deposit a squad at the far end to block our prey from slipping the net. Lieutenant Allen!" At her terse bark, said officer steps out and crisply salutes. "Your squad will be tasked with closing off this entrance. Let no one enter or exit on pain of death. Do you understand your orders?"

"Yes, your Majesty," the Lieutenant replies, and then salutes before departing to deploy his men at the mouth of the pass.

"Lieutenant Rodrigo," she calls, summoning the third officer attending this mission. He, as Lieutenant Allen had, steps out with a crisp salute.

Rodrigo is a personal favorite who hails from her home country, to the southwest of her family's ancestral domain. She appointed him to her personal guard upon seizing the crown. As he was born a peasant, it was not becoming to immediately place him into the officer corps, so she arranged for him to be under the command of an officer with similarly humble beginnings who had risen through the ranks via toil, dedication, and skill. Since then Rodrigo has flourished, serving faithfully and accruing various noteworthy commendations along the way. Complete confidence in the Lieutenant is not difficult for her to summon when he has yet to fail her.

Pride for her countryman swells in her breast. She allows it to show as she instructs him, "Gather your squad around me, please, Lieutenant."

"Form ranks around the Queen!" Rodrigo commands, swirling his ornate cavalry sabre in the air. After his men are encircling Rocinante, the Lieutenant joins them, coming to stand at her left.

Regina turns her eyes to the commanding officer before departing for the far end of the pass. "Captain Renford," she says, "you may begin your ascent. Should you encounter resistance, do not wait for me to begin the assault. I shall join you shortly."

"Yes, your Majesty," Renford bows, then glances back up at her. "Shall I leave two men behind to make the ascent with you upon your return?"

Regina shakes her head, a bit impatient, but appreciative of the thoughtful nature of his query. The captain is an excellent soldier with an unwavering dutifulness and an attention to detail that will be sorely missed should he perish on this mission. Not that such a potential negative consequence can deter her when obsession with capturing Snow supersedes every other consideration. In the end, he is a pawn on her chess board, nothing more and nothing less.

"That is not necessary, Captain," she says dismissively. "I will not linger far enough behind for trouble to find me, and although I will be low on reserve energy after situating Lieutenant Rodrigo's squad, I will not be completely depleted. I can defend myself if I must. Mind you, I am also accomplished with a sword, as you have learned personally."

When she first promoted Renford, he was full of himself – an arrogant, misogynistic prick that needed to be reigned in before those unfavorable attributes outweighed the favorable ones. She challenged him to a non-lethal duel, privately of course to avoid shaming him in front of his men, which he accepted. Her skill with a blade has never been a closely guarded secret. Many uppity men who dismissed her because of her gender have crossed swords with her and not lived to tell the tale. Renford, like most of her officer corps, thought himself above all of the enemies she had dispatched and thus required a harsh lesson. He touched her only once in their best of five contest. After that, he was far more humble and obedient.

When Renford bows his head in obeisance, Regina gives him an encouraging smile. As she had told him after their duel, bygones are bygones. He had conducted himself well to put her to the test as he did and unlike many who trod his path before did not let his defeat at the hands of a woman much smaller and ostensibly weaker than him break him. Instead, it motivated him to be better and opened his eyes to the value of women in combat roles. A month later, Renford started taking women who wished to be warriors into his company. Three of his first recruits are with him today, themselves grizzled veterans of many bloody engagements.

"I will be fine, Gerald," she says to him, knowing he only spoke up out of concern for her well being. "Do not allow my safety to be a distraction. Capturing Snow is one thing. Her companion, however, will present a vastly more difficult challenge that will require all of your concentration."

He nods in acquiescence then calls out for his men to fall in line. Looking to her one last time, Regina waves her hand in permission for him to orders the advance. He does so promptly. As she watches his company begin a confident march up the pass, a deep sense of satisfaction warms her bones. She has all but assured her impending triumph.

Brimming with assurance that encroaches upon hubris, she conjures up an image of the opposite end of the pass in her mind and then immediately summons her magic once again to transport Rodrigo's squad there. Located just on the side of the border belonging to her kingdom, the outlet spreads out from the base of the mountain like a yawning jaw. Rimmed with craggy tooth outcroppings, it empties into dense foliage that quickly gives way to unending forest, making it a perfect location in which to stage an ambush.

Before returning to follow Renford's company up the pass from the rear, Regina relays the same instructions to Rodrigo as she had to Allen: hold his position on pain of death. He accepts the charge with a crisp salute and then orders his men into position. With all of the pieces carefully arranged, she at last returns to where she'd departed Captain Renford.

Back at the entrance to the pass, she spurs Rocinante forward into a leisurely trot. Her magic is significantly drained from her efforts to place her troops but that is of little concern. With both ends of the pass blocked and a company of thirty men on the route itself, Snow and her furry friend are hemmed in and all but finished. She deems it highly unlikely that she will be forced to risk her health summoning large spells when she doubts any magic whatsoever will be required to accomplish her objective. How are two young women going to defeat so many soldiers trained to deadly precision along with the most infamous sorceress to ever live? Even if one of them is a fearsome werewolf, the thought is laughably absurd.

As she ascends the path, Regina lags a ways behind her soldiers while they slog up the treacherous path to intercept their quarry. Being alone gives her a chance to revel in her pending triumph. The thrill of finally having Snow at her mercy has her approaching a state of preemptive euphoria.

So sure is she of victory that she begins to envision the plethora of creative ways in which she can dispose of her archenemy. Firstly she contemplates beheading Snow, but swiftly decides that is simply too quick a method of execution. No, Snow must suffer endless agony before she is allowed the mercy of death. With that option eliminated, she considers gifting Snow some quality time in the rack, after which the brutalized prisoner would be drawn and quartered. But the thought of involving horses, so majestic an animal, in Snow's death seems distasteful – although considering the way Snow had entered her life, an equestrian related demise would be somewhat perversely appropriate. In the end, she settles on a grim series of tortures involving publicly flogging Snow over a period of weeks followed by nightly visits from the Head Inquisitor, a man Regina had hired for his special creativity with punishments. Only once Snow is hovering at death's door, begging to be put down like the animal she is, will the torment end, and then just so whatever quivering lump of flesh remains can be unceremoniously roasted at the stake.

By the time Regina catches up to Captain Renford's company, she is practically salivating from the delicious fantasies involving Snow's prodigious suffering. To her utter dismay, however, she does not arrive to the joyous sight of a subdued Snow White, nor is she welcomed by the corpse the dead compatriot who was unlucky enough to have accompanied the outlaw princess upon the lonely and perilous mountain pass. Instead she is met with the distressing reality of her troops being thoroughly trounced.

Seeing as the soldiers she deployed are the most skilled fighters in her entire realm, she is quite perplexed by the development. That shock promptly turns into awe upon noticing dead soldiers strewn in grotesque positions – many lacking significant portions of their anatomy – at the humongous paws of the most magnificent beast she has ever laid eyes upon.

Enraptured, she watches the massive wolf with midnight fur and huge glowing yellow eyes rend into pieces what remains of her men one by one. The fugitives have chosen to make their stand at a section of the pass wide enough for three broad shouldered men to navigate side-by-side. On one side, a sheer wall of rock the most talented climber could not scale, and on the other a drop so long a cat could not survive. The tactic virtually eliminates the numerical advantage of the attackers and makes it that much easier for an enormous werewolf to dispatch her enemies with extreme prejudice.

To get at the two, Renford's troops are forced to kick or hurtle their slain comrades over the narrow pass, sending corpses tumbling down the mountainside. Meanwhile Snow hovers behind the wolf by a step or two, safely guarded from harm by her four-legged protector as she cuts down her fair share of opponents one arrow at a time with deadly precision. While Snow's talent with the bow is impressive, it is glaringly evident that the lion's share of the damage has been done by the gorgeous wolf whose ebony fur now glistens with the blood of the soldiers she has slain.

To Regina it feels like the slaughter takes hours. And there is nothing she can do about it. Her magic is unavailable except in emergency and there is no room for her to enter the fray. So she sits upon Rocinante and watches, half horrified and half captivated.

After the wolf has dispatched the last of her enemies, Captain Renford himself, she stands there motionless with baleful yellow eyes fixated unflinchingly upon Regina. The complete lack of fear in the creature is emphasized by a level of contempt that sends a lance of cold through her suddenly frigid body. She starts to summon her magic but stops before it arcs at her fingertips upon spotting something strange. Hidden within the depths of those wild eyes, underneath all of the rancor, she there is allure directed toward her that, while impossible to explain, nonetheless beckons her to momentarily disregard her sole purpose for being here. Snow is so tantalizingly close at hand, and yet Regina becomes too distracted to care. An instant surge of interest in Snow's beast that is both tantalizing and disgusting has for the moment overridden her primary objective.

Every subsequent attempt to suppress whatever mystical cords are being drawn between her and the wolf ends in failure as her instinct to slaughter every living thing before her wrestles with this disconcerting fascination. Regina languishes in indecision, paralyzed and hardly able to breathe. It is almost as if she has succumbed to the inescapable tendrils of some previously undiscovered exotic enchantment. The thought would surely seem ridiculous except for the pleasant warmth suffusing her chest, the prickling of an excitement-induced sweat beading at her temple, and the rapid beating of her heart within her breast.

For a long spell, nothing on the mountain moves aside from the spits of snow raining down from the sky. The air is astonishingly still. All of the soldiers Regina has sent up the mountain pass are dead, and without full use of her power, she recognizes her own vulnerability all too well. She loathes the feeling almost as much as she does the stark reality of the mission having so spectacularly failed.

During the years she suffered indignity after indignity trapped in a loveless marriage she didn't want, she had become close acquaintances with vulnerability. Fear was her constant mode of being back then. How could it not be when she was constantly forced to relinquish control over her life and her body to a man who held no regard for her outside of her usefulness to his infuriatingly ignorant daughter and to his pathetically tiny dick. Only magic had made her strong enough to take back possession of her own life by avenging herself upon her chauvinistic oppressor.

Unfortunately her magic is mostly useless now, having spent the bulk of it transporting her troops only for them to be slain down to the last man. With woefully inadequate reserves at her disposal, she is suddenly reduced to that helpless young woman who just lost the love of her life along with all hope of a happy future. Despair sets in at the periphery of her consciousness, pressing against the ever-present rage that has defined her for so long.

She levels a murderous glare at Snow. Were she faced with the exiled princess alone, there is no doubt in her mind that her superior swordsmanship would prevail in a contest to the death. But Snow is not alone. To her increasing alarm, a beast of epic grandeur is poised forebodingly between them, forbidding her from achieving her ultimate victory.

And then something truly bizarre happens. Deep within her chest, she feels a tug on her attention coming from the direction of the majestic wolf. When her eyes meet those glowing yellow furnaces of emotion once more, she watches intently as they shift from open hatred, to muted surprise, and then finally to a beguiled tint that indicates the wolf is as subconsciously invested in Regina as she is in her.

The most astounding part is that the development is not at all unpleasant. For whatever reason, she feels drawn to this beast, and can only wonder as to why. Never before has she experienced so strong an urge to interact with another being, especially one whom she has just encountered for the first time.

Unbidden, Rocinante takes a step forward, completely unafraid as if spurred by his mistress's magnetic reaction to the creature before him. To Regina's surprise, the wolf meets that step with a nonthreatening one of its own.

In typical fashion, Snow chooses that moment to open her accursed trap, breaking the magical connection. "Well, well. Not what you anticipated would happen, was it Regina?" The gloating is delivered with haughty disdain indicating excessive pleasure that her paltry party of two has annihilated a company thirty strong.

"Not quite," Regina retorts, eyes still locked upon the black wolf as it settles down on its haunches to hover protectively at Snow's side. "You had an advantage that I did not. Now that I have been so rudely enlightened, believe me when I say I won't make the same mistake twice."

Regina audibly gasps as the werewolf begins to transform. She stares on, unashamedly transfixed by the process of an entire skeleton rearranging and stretching out as bones are reshaped from the compact ones of an awesomely powerful wolf into the familiar lengths belonging to a human being. However, the human who has so recently appeared from the furry form of her counterpart is far from ordinary. On the contrary, she is a statuesque specimen of womanhood that steals away Regina's ability to form either coherent sentences or cogent thoughts.

Lush dark hair tumbles in curls down the planes of a shapely back and surprisingly delicate shoulders to frame a striking face which flushes brightly at being intently gawked at. The young woman before her is so unearthly beautiful that Regina surmises her to features to have been carved by the hands of the gods themselves. To her horror, she realizes her once passive interest is morphing at a dizzying rate into an acutely active one. This strange, mystical girl has so enraptured her that she can only dimly recognize the altogether alien sensation of being bewitched – an irony considering she is an expert practitioner of the dark arts.

"Oh, please do send some more fodder for my wolf to dispatch," Snow's alluringly mysterious protector then replies, her voice as sweet as warm honey to Regina's ears – her insides as well, it seems, judging by the way her chest suffuses with heat and her belly stirs pleasantly. Still partially under the effects of the transformation, the girl's eyes glow a latent, ethereal yellow. Her enticingly full lips turn up in a self-satisfied smirk. As if being pulled by the same invisible thread Regina had felt earlier, the werewolf moves closer and closer as she speaks, "She so enjoys playing with the toys you send her. This lot was the funnest yet, but still not quite up to snuff as you can see."

Unable to help herself, Regina barks out a full, throaty laugh. She is absolutely delighted by the emboldened gall of a peasant who has brazenly aligned herself with the Evil Queen's mortal enemy.

"Oh, my dear, if you think that's the best I've got, you're sorely mistaken," Regina shoots back.

While she possesses the power to obliterate the painfully young and naive woman before her, she lacks the energy to summon it without completely draining herself. And that is not to mention the fact that the girl had slaughtered a contingent of her best men with what was evidently little effort on her part. Impressed as she is by Snow's werewolf companion, she is yet unwilling to show any form of weakness. Thus the half-lie.

Eyeing the girl with barely restrained lust, she smiles wickedly. "That said, I am so very pleased you enjoyed my gifts. Perhaps in the near future I'll have to work up something extra special just for you."

Flashing Regina an almost playful grin, the dark haired beauty chuckles in amusement even as a blush colors her face, which then spreads southward through the swath of pale flesh covering her neck to the portion of her upper chest left exposed by otherwise modest garments. Her brilliant green eyes dilate, the clear hint of arousal in them thrilling Regina to no end. It also does not escape her notice that Snow is watching the exchange in open consternation, which only serves to fuel Regina's escalating excitement.

"I'll be eagerly awaiting whatever you come up with, Your Majesty," the werewolf replies, having drifted to stand only a handful of paces away – close enough that Regina is at last able to fully appreciate her unnatural beauty.

Frankly, it is outright disgusting how gorgeous the girl is. Regina does not often encounter women whose attractiveness can even marginally rival her own, but in the person of this otherworldly werewolf, she is sure she has finally met someone who surpasses her. If it were not for the fact that she is so curiously enamored, she would be positively green with envy.

Eyeing the subject of her fascination with unveiled eyes, Regina hums with anticipation. "Is that a challenge? My, my aren't you brave. Or stupid."

"Neither. I'm just a girl doing what she's gotta do." The mysterious young woman beams a smile that reveals perfect rows of large pearly white teeth.

Regina's heart begins to race with so tempting a prize almost within reach. She can barely refrain from using up her limited reserves of energy in order to snatch the girl up and transport them both to her castle, to hell with Snow and her revenge. Not wanting to give in to such a frivolous and dangerous impulse, she settles instead for drawing out more information.

"What's your name then, girl?"

"Red, Your Majesty," the werewolf boldly declares. "My name is Red." The name falling from those alluring lips feels almost tangible, like sweetly scented rose petals brushing against Regina's sensitive flesh. She shudders involuntarily, and though the reaction is subtle enough to be hidden from Snow, Red does not miss it. Taking another step forward, her smoldering green eyes dilate even more, causing them to appear almost wholly black. Regina cannot hold back a gasp of surprise at the blatant, almost aggressive nature of Red's pursuit of whatever inexplicable attraction is building between them.

It is at that point Snow once again decides to intervene. Stepping between Red and Regina, she halts Red's progress and at the same time partially blocks Regina's view of the too-pretty werewolf. As short as Snow is, Red's face remains visible despite Snow's interference, and because of that Regina is able to observe a strange mixture of emotions play across those too-pretty features aimed directly at her companion. First is appreciation of Snow's protective nature, after which comes affection for the defense of her virtue. It the last that most interests Regina, though, as it is an uneasy aggravation that settles into Red's expression. Apparently she is rather upset at their charged interplay being interrupted.

Regina latches onto that unexpected sentiment with both hands, realizing it means that the beguiling shapeshifter has been enjoying their repartee as much as she has. As it was with every other aspect of her life, though, Snow simply had to ruin it.

"That's quite enough," the insufferable nitwit then interjects. "I'll thank you to leave her out of this. This is between you and me, Regina, so let's keep it that way."

Regina scoffs at the implied and utterly unintimidating threat. Rolling her eyes, she snarls back, "Even if I were to ignore the rather impressive fact that she effortlessly destroyed so many of my men, you are my enemy, Snow. Therefore, those who commiserate with you are my enemies also, a fact of which I'm sure Red here is well aware. And we all know what I do to my enemies."

Regina is secretly delighted to see the girl shiver noticeably upon hearing her name spoken. Another flush works its way up her cheeks as well, coloring them the same lovely shade as her moniker. Enthralled as she is by the reaction, Regina is tempted to continue her exchange with Red in spite of Snow only to be thwarted by Snow nocking a bolt into her bow. The bandit aims it straight at Regina's heart.

"In that case let's just end this tired game of ours right now," Snow grits out and then looses the string of her bow, firing the bolt with deadly accuracy.

Out of pure instinct, Regina reacts with swift movements, catching the offending bolt with a careful application of magic. To her aggravation, she does not recover in time to prevent the two outlaws from slipping away down the pass, Snow all but dragging Red, who is peering back despondently at Regina over her shoulder, away by the hand. Left alone and with her magic at dangerously low levels, she quickly analyzes the situation.

On one hand, she can be reckless and follow after her quarry or on the other she can simply abandon pursuit of them altogether. She has just enough energy left to teleport back home to regroup, conceding that this particular opportunity has all but slipped away. She already knows that the handful of men guarding the exit of the pass will be unable to stand against Red and Snow's combined skill, even with her limited help.

The rational choice would be to return home and wait for another opportunity to present itself, but she is simply not feeling rational at the moment, and for more than one reason. That she wants Snow to be apprehended is a given, but beyond that she is also loathe to let Red slip so easily from her grasp. The look on Red's face as Snow dragged away has imprinted upon her brain – that ragged desperation to have just one more minute of interaction, to be allowed to get just one step closer. Something about Red has disrupted Regina's carefully constructed goals so that she finds herself feeling that same desperation. Desire to secure the werewolf by whatever means necessary before returning to the Dark Palace usurps any further rationalization.

Unsure as to precisely why she feels so compelled, Regina dismounts and then commands Rocinante to return to the entrance of the pass where a squadron of her troops are waiting. Risking herself is one thing, but her only true friend in the world should not have to pay for her current bout of foolishness. As always Rocinante obeys, and once he is loping steadily down the pass, she sets her shoulders, withdraws her sword from its scabbard, and sets out after the two fugitives.

Whilst traversing the narrow path it the snow begins to fall in earnest. Without her magic to provide artificial heat, the bitter chill starts to soak down through the layers of her clothes, past her skin, and on into her bones. For at least five minutes, she stumbles onward, staying close to the rough cliff face on her right to keep her bearings and her balance.

So thick is the snowfall and so discombobulated is she in the cold that she does not see or hear an enormous boulder working free somewhere above her head. Upon releasing from its outcropping, it hurtles toward her, poised to crush her fragile human frame like an ant, and would have done just that had it not been for a blur of red plowing unexpectedly into her body. The impact launches her away from the incoming slab of solid stone, sending her sprawling onto her side, dislodging her sword, which slides over the lip of the pass and clanks down the unforgiving slope.

Regina does not have to wonder at what has happened, her brain having instantly made the connection. Snow's werewolf has chosen to double back, and in so doing, saved her life.

After standing up and brushing the dirt off her damp clothes, Regina glares daggers at her now-cloaked savior. She summons a fireball that flickers in and out of existence – she is now drawing on magical fumes, as it were.

"Sorry," Red says in lieu of explanation, holding her hands up to show she means no harm. "I wasn't trying to hurt you. For some reason I just felt like I needed to come back. When I heard the boulder coming down and saw it was about to crush you, I didn't have time to shout a warning."

"What perplexes me is why you would help me at all," Regina says, and then risks extinguishing the fireball. Her cynical nature refuses to fully relax. Crossing her arms, she narrows her eyes and studies her unlikely savior, searching for any indication the girl might be playing games after all and was merely toying with her prey before deciding to pounce for the slaughter. It is an insensible thought borne out of years of paranoia. If Red wanted her dead, she would have watched that oversized rock turn her into a flesh pancake.

The werewolf shrugs sheepishly, ducking her head and batting her lashes as if chagrined. "I can't really explain it," she offers demurely. "Something kept tugging at my chest, a feeling like I've never had before. It was pleading with me to turn back, and I couldn't deny it. I don't fight my instincts as they have served me well over the years. After I saw Snow safely over the border, I decided to listen to them." She gestures lamely, biting her lip in an apologetic manner before saying, "I had to kill some more of your warriors. Sorry. I left some of them alive, though, including the commander. He's unconscious but alive."

"That surprises me," Regina replies with no small amount of confusion, though she is relieved to hear Rodrigo lives. Still, she wonders how someone who has risked life and limb for Snow White could ignore so fortuitous an opportunity to observe the demise of Snow's greatest enemy. Red's act of mercy makes no sense to a woman unfamiliar with that particularly odious word. "Not that you killed more of my men," she clarifies, "or spared some for that matter, but that you risked your own life to save mine. I would have thought you'd be gladly rid of me seeing as I want your friend dead."

At that, Red quirks her head to the side, a secretive smile playing at the edges of full lips that simply beg to be kissed. "But do you really?" Regina frowns, both at the question and herself, unable to fathom where the thought of kissing Red came from. "Think about it," Red then goes on to make her point, "you could have blasted Snow off the face of the earth earlier, but you didn't. I know how powerful you are. I can smell it on you. No one stopped you from killing her but yourself."

However much Regina desires to object to Red's assessment, there is a kernel of truth there that she is unable to deny, no matter how much she wants to. The ability to find Snow via magic mirror has been part of her repertoire for years, and as Red had so aptly declared, she possesses the power to snuff her enemy out of existence with little effort. Why hadn't she then? Regina finds it difficult to put her finger on any one reason, and that unnerves her more than she cares to admit.

She has always plotted for Snow to suffer before killing her, so that is certainly a motive behind her convoluted tactics. And yet that does not explain why she continually allowed Snow to slip through her fingers. She is many things – vindictive, reckless, and perhaps blind in some areas – but she is not stupid. Not only was she raised by a woman who touted the importance of knowledge and intellect, she had also been trained in the magical arts by a man who amused himself for centuries outwitting people in his nefarious deals. By Cora's unyielding hand she was forced to understand that her mind was every bit as vital as her beauty in determining how successful she could be in a world ruled by men. Rumple, on the other hand, made sure she understood the leverage that power afforded over those whose logic had been trumped by impulse or necessity.

Once Snow was banished from her privileged life, the naive and unprepared princess was fit for being easily outmaneuvered, a lamb practically served up for the slaughter. And yet Regina had failed to capitalize on that inexperience and general lack of survival skills in her prey. Hubris, she now realizes, had convinced her Snow would fail to adapt and would therefore be easily caught. Even when that did not happen, she had continued to squander every chance she had to apprehend the girl she'd sworn to kill on Daniel's grave, a sacred oath if ever there was one.

There is something to what Red has said, but seeing as she is freezing and aggravated at her setback today, Regina is not in the mood to further analyze her own motivations for revenge.

"Careful now," she warns with a sharp sneer, feeling put on the spot and lashing out accordingly. "You're treading on thin ice."

Rather than recoil, Red steps closer with an unreadable expression on her face. "Am I?" Glancing down, she deliberately stomps her boot against unforgiving stone and then gives Regina a wide, gorgeous smile that reaches all the way into twinkling eyes. "Seems like solid ground to me."

"That can be amended," Regina counters, giving a smile of her own that is more edgy, though it lacks any real bite.

Red's entire countenance shimmers with playful delight. "Again, you could have killed me earlier, but you didn't."

"Ah, but if it is a woman's prerogative to change her mind, how much more so for a Queen?" Regina returns, feeling a bit of her discomfort fade. Some intangible aura Red exudes is able to disarm her and make her feel at ease when she should be irate at the cheek being displaying. Instead, she is seized by a thrill that races up her spine as Red takes another deliberate step forward.

"Are you going to?" Red then asks, lips still turned up. "Change your mind, that is."

"I may," Regina replies, settling into their repartee as smoothly as she had earlier. "Step closer and find out if you dare."

Instead of testing her, Red stills, smile remaining firmly in place, though her eyes are now crinkling merrily at the corners. She extends her hand toward Regina and then says, "I know I mentioned my name earlier, but I should probably properly introduce myself. Most folks call me Red Riding Hood for obvious reasons," she shrugs her shoulders and gestures at her eponymous cloak, "but my friends know me as Red Lucas."

Not caring about propriety on so secluded a mountain so far away from the suffocating rituals and rules of court, Regina takes the proffered appendage, leather-bound hand clasping another leather-bound hand.

"How quaint and unoriginal, Red," she replies, surliness evaporating at the feel of Red's impressive grip. She is surprised by the softness of her own voice, by how unladen from scathing sarcasm or anger or needless meanness it is, and especially by how very much she had enjoyed the way the girl's name rolled off her tongue. "I am Queen Regina, of course," she then states, straightening as regally as she can considering the circumstances. "Enigmatic though your reasoning may be, your instincts have served me well this evening. I owe you my life. Thank you."

Red's smile widens almost impossibly at her heroics being recognized, stretching into something toothy and as brilliant as the sun on a clear summer afternoon. From the first time Regina laid eyes on the werewolf, she'd thought her impossibly beautiful; but when Red smiles from her heart as she is at that moment, the celestial bodies of night and day that paint the heavens in awesome grandeur are diminished by comparison.

"You're very welcome, Your Majesty," Red returns, hand still firmly grasping Regina's. The muscles in her forearms ripple beneath ivory skin, and the sight fills Regina with a second onset of warmth that temporarily banishes the cold. After releasing her hand, Red gestures toward the path behind her. "You were following us alone, on foot, and clearly exhausted. I could have taken you without breaking a sweat. Not the smartest play from a woman I've come to respect for her intelligence if not for her tenacity."

Although Regina bristles, it is not in offense. In such close proximity to Red, able now to see the flecks of gold in those mesmerizing green eyes and note the flush coloring the girl's pale cheeks and neck both from the cold and from something else entirely, she feels uncharacteristically charitable. She waves a hand dismissively.

"Yes, well, I saw an opportunity and took it," she says, corners of her lips quirking up, eyes dancing. "Not my best decision, I'll admit, but it's the closest to Snow I've been in months. The thought of letting her get away may have influenced my reckless behavior." The admission, while only partially true, is admittedly difficult to make. All the same Red's arched brow and satisfied smirk – indicating her own engagement in the exchange – make it easier to swallow. "And besides," she then offers a secondary justification that is as irrelevant as the first, "I couldn't very well let the loss of my men go unanswered, now, could I? They represented a significant investment of time and resources to the kingdom. I felt obliged to pursue from a purely economical standpoint."

"Pretending for a moment I buy that," Red counters, eyes dancing in amusement again, "what I really want to know is what are you going to do now? I mean, here I am, the monster that decimated your soldiers. I am at your mercy, wholly human, and I know you have enough fuel left in your tank to do whatever you wish with me."

Regina studies Red carefully, struck by inspiration. Having already been wondering what kind of exquisite frame might be hidden beneath the rough fabrics of Red's peasant garb, she sweeps appraising eyes up and down the body that is currently covered by far too many layers of clothing. Judging by the toned forearms she's already been afforded a glimpse of, her imagination starts to run amok.

With wholly inappropriate intensity, she aches to discover just how defined the girl's muscles are, imagining that she might closely resemble the flawless goddesses whose statues inhabit the ancient temples found in the countries to the south. Almost desperately Regina longs to roam lazy fingers down what is sure to be a taut tummy, and then skim the palms of her hands up silky smooth yet powerfully carved thighs that propel what are certain to be impossibly long legs judging by Red's height.

If only you knew the sort of things I wish to do to you. Regina's skin itches with want, and even though Snow is tantalizingly within her reach, she is far too enamored to even care. In this paradoxical girl, simple of appearance yet deceptively complex, she has a new obsession to occupy her. Determined at present to indulge it, all thoughts of Snow recede to the fringes of her mind.

Suddenly besieged by an irresistible urge to claim the werewolf as her own, Regina decides she wants this girl on her side. Just the same, she is also aware her normal tactics will be insufficient. Offers of riches and power will hold no interest for a woman who is clearly willing to cast her life away for a criminal with zero prospects of accruing any substantial wealth. The possibility of hurtling colorful threats seems equally futile, as Red seems to have little to no fear of her whatsoever. There is also the rather unfortunate fact that magically enslaving a werewolf is a fool's errand many a magician has attempted, only to for the enchantment to break at the most inopportune moment and their victim turn upon them with savage instincts provoked to a frenzied high. All of this means she is left with only one recourse: to rely solely upon her womanly charms.

Difficult as it may be, she will have to rein in her mile-wide impulsive streak and calm the roiling molten seas of her volcanic temper. Like a feral animal first encountering human civilization, Red will require a measured patience and a gentle touch, neither of which Regina is known to possess aside from her dealings with innocent children and her precious horses. To her, no one has proven worth the effort til now.

However it is possible, Red has seen through the formerly impenetrable facade that conceals the woman carefully entombed beneath the shell of the Evil Queen. What's more, Red has witnessed the Queen in all her terrible splendor and neither balked nor batted a lovely eyelash upon catching a manic interest that sends most fleeing in fear or cowering in pitiful submission. If anything, the Queen seems to excite Red more than the werewolf would probably ever admit to her insufferably pure friend.

Red, it appears, is far more interesting and unusual than Regina had first believed. Few are capable of taking the good with the bad without favoring one over the other depending upon moral inclination. It doesn't seem to matter to Red that Regina presents her evil side to the world while keeping what scant goodness lingers securely buried. It's been made perfectly clear during this brief interaction that Snow remaining alive is, to Red, proof that the woman she used to be is still present inside her. And that appears to be more than enough reason for Red to have committed such a startling act of proactive trust, not only by saving her life but by entrusting her with her own.

Honestly, it's a little intimidating – and terrifying – to be the recipient of such trust when the last person who'd done so destroyed her entire life. But no matter the association, Red is not Snow. That much Regina knows without a doubt. Snow could never look at Regina the way Red is right now, not with her in full Evil Queen regalia and coldblooded murder still inhabiting her charred heart. With Snow, it was always pity, guilt, or disgust whereas Red's steady gaze is marked by an attraction underscored by a deep, almost fathomless level of understanding. Only someone who is herself a monster can appreciate another monster without the stigma of morality sullying an intense, rapidly forming, and rare connection such as theirs.

So if she is required to entice Red with more of the witty banter and molten glances they have been sharing, sweetened by glimpses of a goodness she'd perhaps mistakenly thought forever in her past, she was willing to do so. Miraculously, Red believes her to be worth a lavish attention she had not recognized until now that she craves. It is the least she could do to return the favor. And with any luck, Red will soon enough succumb to the undeniable chemistry between them, the prospect of which sends a shiver coursing through Regina's limbs.

As far as she is concerned, this is an all or nothing proposition. Scant as her experience interacting with Red is, she has already concluded that a simple companionship will not suffice for either of them. Empty sex is something she already has at a ready supply, and judging by how loyal to a fault Red is, that option is not available for her at all. There is, she realizes, a real possibility of something meaningful forming between them.

A day earlier, she would have laughed until she was hoarse at the idea that she would ever willingly risk her heart again over a love affair. And yet she cannot bridle her suddenly runaway desires. She wants Red, wants all of her, wants the magnificent creature writhing beneath her fervent ministrations, bared to her not only in body but in mind, heart, and soul as well. Regina wants Red to be her woman and her wolf, not Snow's, and admitting that to herself is as terrifying as it is exhilarating.

"What happens next depends solely upon you," she offers enigmatically, her decision made. A subtle leer is present in her perusal of Red that causes the girl to yet again blush prettily.

Red worries artfully shaped lips for a moment before responding. "How so?"

Feeling audacious, Regina steps toward Red and is pleased to see that she does not flinch back even slightly. Rather, she remains bravely in place, head held high and eyes burning with anticipation.

As Regina maneuvers herself into Red's personal space, she hums out in approval at the response. She has grown tired of lovers who cow to her every whim, who lack the spine to stand up to her and take what they want when she is in the rare mood to give a little. She is hungry for someone whose strength of character is as immutable and whose will as intractable as her own, someone who can feed her mind and spirit as well as her body by challenging her without posing a threat to her sovereignty because they are trustworthy. In Red she believes she has glimpsed a potential partner who would do all of those things for her, a partner who is capable of standing by her side rather than folding up under the tremendous pressures of her life only to then be inevitably crushed beneath her heel.

"Since you saved my life," she answers, making sure to allow for invitation in her tone, "I am inclined to ignore your status as co-conspirator to and your abetting of an infamous outlaw in order to offer you a modest reward. It is one I personally believe you would be a fool to decline." Upon noticing that Red's interest is highly piqued, Regina grins. "In return for your agreement to dine with me on any night of your choosing within a fortnight, I will suspend my pursuit of Snow...for the time being."

Red's eyebrows shoot up at that. It appears she is as shocked to receive such an offer as Regina is that she made it. And yet to her endless astonishment she meant every word.

"Are you serious?"

"Of course I am," Regina retorts with a scoff. "I wouldn't be standing here in the freezing snow trading banter with you otherwise."

For a moment, Red grows visibly suspicious, which is to be expected. Coming from the Evil Queen, the offer must sound far too good to be true, perhaps even seeming like a trap meant to lure Snow into surrendering by capturing her best friend.

"Why would you do that?" Red then queries, her large eyes slightly narrowing. "And for how long would this ceasefire last?"

Regina tuts, though somehow manages to remain calm whereas she would normally be irritated beyond measure to have her motives questioned. Red, it appears, has some kind of mollifying effect on her, and she isn't quite sure she likes it.

"Why? Because I am the Queen. I do what I want," is her abrupt answer to the first question, as if that should be enough. She is not yet ready to show her full hand, but in order to answer Red's query more fully, she adds: "As for the latter...again, that depends entirely upon you and your ability to entertain me, my dear. My hope is that should we both be satisfied with this arrangement, we can...negotiate an extension. I cannot currently fathom why, but I appear to be open to persuasion where you are concerned. If I were you, I wouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth, as it were."

Understanding dawns in Red's becoming eyes. "You mean to seduce me, don't you?" The blunt assessment catches Regina off guard and she reels back a step, unused to such boldness. "I've heard of your dalliances," Red then explains upon witnessing Regina's reaction, "and I know that you like to take lovers on a whim. I also know how you toss them out like yesterday's trash after you've finished with them. While I have to admit interest in the offer, I won't allow you to use me in such a degrading way. Besides the fact that I love Snow and will never betray her, I do actually have standards. I may be a peasant by birth, Your Majesty, but I'm nobody's whore. Not even yours."

Again Regina is taken aback, this time in that Red has so readily declared an interest in pursuing a sexual relationship so long as it is not a means to entrap Snow. She hadn't expected the girl to be forthcoming, but finds herself pleasantly surprised.

"I could have your tongue for speaking to me with such impudence," she retorts, sneering just a tad to put Red in her place. She is the Evil Queen, after all, and must keep up appearances. Sadly, her posturing doesn't seem to have any effect on Red, who merely arches a flawless eyebrow. "But I will give you a pass just this once because neither of those scenarios reflect my intentions. However," she amends, "to address your understandable concerns, I will concede that I have taken my fair share of lovers and disposed of them, as you so crudely put it, like so much trash.

"I am a harsh woman, and selfish to a fault. I make no apologies for who I am. I use people for my own ends on a regular basis, and I don't see that changing any time soon. But in the interest of transparency, I will confess that I have never been so taken before as I am with you. I certainly would never have risked my own life upon a treacherously narrow mountain pass in the driving snow and biting cold just to get a second glimpse of any of my past lovers. So while your apprehension is sensible, commendable even, in this case it is not warranted. My offer is genuine."

The admission frightens Regina almost as much as it stuns Red. She hadn't meant to be so forward; it just sort of came out of her mouth all of its own volition. She would feel mortified and disgusted at herself had Red not reacted in such a receptive way.

Standing there in the snow, her bright red hood decorated by a light pile of snow flakes, Red gapes in awe as if she has just heard the most wonderful and terrifying thing. "You really feel that way?" Regina nods, swallowing heavily. "Why me?"

"I don't rightly know," Regina confesses, and notes that her heart beats faster when Red nibbles again at her lower lip. "Against all reason you seem to have bewitched me." Feeling instinctively that it is a make or break moment, she decides to play her cards, to lay it all out on the line and bare herself in a way she hadn't since Daniel passed. It is the most frightened she has been in years, but strangely also the most alive. "I cannot deny the accuracy of your assessment that I wish to bed you. I am intensely attracted to you, and I am sure that is obvious to you considering...what you are." She holds Red's gaze, making sure the werewolf understands, truly understands what she is trying to say. "All the same, to minimize this as a simple desire for carnal fulfillment would be grossly misrepresenting how I feel. There is some invisible force drawing me to you, and although I would normally be inclined to fight it, I do not wish to. Not now. I am suddenly and inexplicably tired of fighting."

Tilting her head slightly, she gazes at Red, willing the girl to understand how perplexed she is about all of this while also projecting a reassurance that will pierce through any lingering doubts Red may have. "Against all better sense, I want to know you," she says, intent in inflection, "and for you in turn to know me. In order for that to happen, we must spend time with each other. Therefore I am willing to make a concession to secure that time, even if it is one that pains me beyond description."

Red makes no reply, just stares on in amazement at Regina's speech, and it makes the normally self-assured Queen unusually nervous. She is both unused to being so exposed and unaccustomed to her advances not being immediately accepted.

Flushing slightly, she squares her shoulders and gives Red a glare that lacks any real conviction. "If breaking bread with me is not an amenable solution, perhaps I have misjudged..."

"N-no!" Red then protests with wide eyes, interrupting Regina. "It's not that. I just..." She takes a giant breath and lets it out slowly. Shaking her head, she laughs ruefully. "When I was a kid, my Granny scrounged up enough spare coin to take me to the fair that was passing through the kingdom. I can remember how impressed I was with the jousting competition, and how much I wanted to taste all the wonderful food there we couldn't afford. But then, I saw a line of armored soldiers passing our way, and in the midst of them, the most glorious vision of splendor to ever grace the earth. It was you. I was just twelve years old, but I will never forget what it was like to fall in love for the first time, and I did...the moment I saw you."

Again Regina reels, remembering the particular fair Red is referring to but having no recollection of catching sight of an adolescent werewolf girl. She suddenly wishes she had, if only to know what Red looked like at so tender an age.

Wistful and glassy eyed, Red tilts her head and smiles as she continues with her reminiscing. "After we got back home, I spent my nights fantasizing about coming of age and doing something about my impossible crush. I knew the king was old, that he was likely to have passed by that time, and I was set on my path. I decided that I was going to become a famous knight so that I could enter the jousting tournament and win your hand. It was a foolish fantasy in retrospect, but those childhood dreams got me through some really bad times in the years that followed."

"Dreams often are foolish, especially those of our youth," Regina offers. She has personal experience, after all. Still somewhat out of sorts from the confession, her heart is palpitates ferociously against her breast. "But as you can see, sometimes they are harbingers of things to come. You may not be a famous knight, and might not have won my hand, but you have captured my interest all the same. The question is: is that enough incentive for you to accept my offer?"

At that, Red's entire visage turns playful, and she gives Regina teasing smile. "I guess you'll find out in two weeks." And with that, she transforms back into the form of a gorgeous black wolf, and after a playful yip, throws her head back and howls in earnest. Regina laughs, happy to hear the boisterous trumpeting and delighting in the way it lifts her spirits, makes her feel optimistic about life outside of the mission that has consumed her for so long.

As she watches Red sprint away, her anticipation for the following weeks grows exponentially. What she could not possibly have predicted, however, is that whenever she hears the sound of Red howling into the night over the subsequent years, she will remember this moment with vivid clarity. She will marvel at how on an isolated, desolate, frigid mountain pass, she felt hope stir within her breast for the first time in nearly a decade. It is a hope that – although made to endure many tribulations and forced to face many trials – will never, ever fade.

#ouat fanfic #red queen ouat #regina x ruby #enchanted forest au #typical long ass chapter by Fox #posted for convenience of weirdos who read fanfic on Tumblr #go register on ao3!#=D #also features Snow aka Regina's biggest fan #Also Dorothy but more in line with her actual origin #And Ozma! With whom I fell a little in love writing this #Also some side Mulan/Aurora/Phillip fluff

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creative-type · 6 years

Text

Monster of the Salt Rock Hills IX

First

AO3

AN: I must again apologize for a transition chapter that is about half as long as I originally intended. We have influenza in our building at work again, with lots of sick and dying residents that has made it difficult to find motivation, and I’m starting a stretch where I work seven of the next eight days. It was post now or probably wait another two weeks.

On a somewhat happier note, several plot points have clicked into place so when I do get time the writing process should occur faster. I estimate there are 2-4 chapters left, plus maybe an epilogue. Also, there will be world building elements in upcoming chapters that I am taking directly from Patreon, so if there are things that pop up in the comic later that seem familiar, yes, I did steal them from Meg (but only with her permission).

Chapter Nine: Fact and Impossibility (and the Confusion Thereof)

There was little to do after that except give Isla her shoes, which thanks to Mum’s wards was trickier than expected. Neither Thistle nor Isla could get close enough to the bars to simply hand them over, and any attempts at using magic would read as an escape attempt. In the end it was Lyra who made two lucky tosses into the cell itself. Thistle felt a sense of relief that Isla would be allowed at least that modicum of dignity, but found herself getting angry all over again when she rose unsteadily to her feet.

“Where’s your cane?” Thistle asked.

“Confiscated,” Isla said bitterly. Moving gingerly she bent down to pick up her boots, pausing do adjust the brace that supported her ankle. “Said I couldn’t be trusted with any enchanted items.”

“You enchanted your cane?” Brent asked.

“It’s hardly a Wizard staff, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Isla said. “I just etched a few runes to help with stability. I…I fell a lot after I first woke up. It helped when I was getting used to all this.”

Isla made a disgusted gesture at her bad leg and hobbled back to the bench at the back of the cell. “I never did thank you for looking at it,” she said quietly. “It doesn’t hurt nearly as bad today.”

“Oh! Um, you’re welcome,” Thistle said, blushing furiously. “I’m sorry I couldn’t do more.”

Isla shook her head ruefully, and seemed to be ready to say something before stopping herself. “You should get out of here before the orc sics his horse on you.”

“She’s right,” Lyra said. “We should try to find Orrig and see what he’s found out.”

The trio were filing out of the jailhouse when Brent said, “How d’you think Rizaek got a winged horse anyway? It doesn’t look anything like the ones out here.”

“It’s probably a domesticated breed,” Thistle said.

“It’s a $&#*@!$ warhorse,” Lyra said. “Not even gelded. Can’t imagine how much upkeep costs.”

She made a good point, and Thistle was reminded of Rhys’s expensive enchanted bracers. Either Rhys’s team was doing extremely well for itself or they had some very generous patrons backing their work. Thistle was about to point out this fact when she saw that Rizaek was no longer guarding the jailhouse by himself.

Mum wiggled his fingers in greeting. He managed to drape himself artfully against the railing, and seemed perfectly at ease despite the fact that Rhys was glowering with displeasure not two feet away. Rizaek stood apart from them both, glancing at his employer uneasily whenever he thought Rhys wasn’t looking.

And Orrig…Orrig was as stoic as ever, seemingly neither happy nor upset at the morning’s turn of events. He beckoned to Thistle, Brent, and Lyra, and suddenly the two rival mercenary groups were all together again for the first time since their disastrous meeting the day before.

“Whatever he says, I didn’t touch him and I didn’t lose control,” Brent said defiantly.

“I know.”

It was amazing the effect two simple words could have. Relief washed over Brent, leaving him momentarily unguarded and vulnerable. He quickly regathered himself, trying to copy Orrig’s effortless serenity and not quite succeeding.

An unnatural hush fell over the front of the jailhouse, the air thick with tension. The animosity radiating between the two groups was nauseating, and Thistle wished she could be anywhere else. Out of the corner of her eye she saw a housewife staring at them through her kitchen window. They were being watched, and whatever happened here would spread like wildfire through the Salt Rock Hills.

Almost unconsciously, Thistle straightened her spine. She was afraid, the gods only knew how much she was afraid, but this was bigger than herself. Thistle didn’t know if she’d be able to live with herself if she failed Orrig again after he had placed so much (undeserved) trust in her abilities.

She felt Lyra on her other side, poised and confident and ready to fight if the need arose, and relaxed. She wasn’t alone in this. By herself, Thistle knew she was weak—

foolish girl. only digging yourself in deeper. useless, nothing you can do. why even try, you don’t even know if you’re right

—but right now she wasn’t by herself. Orrig, Lyra, and Brent were all at least willing to entertain the notion that Isla was innocent, and that made all the difference.

“It has become evident that, despite all evidence in my favor, you are going to pursue this matter until the very end,” Rhys said, his tone icy cold.

“*@$& straight,” Lyra said, only to be hushed by Orrig.

“Your doubts have reached the mayor’s ears,” Rhys continued, glaring daggers at Lyra. “He has decided to allow you to stay and conduct your investigation, should you choose to do so. However, by this evening arrangements will have been made for Miss Clark’s incarceration at the Crossroad’s jail, and she will be formally charged with poaching. The only thing you can hope to accomplish is to waste my time. I implore you to bring this charade to an end. Go home, catch a few rous or whatever it is you people specialize in. You’re hunting a monster that doesn’t exist.”

Orrig leaned against his axe, a small twitch in his jaw the only thing betraying his irritation. “I come to you because dere facts you not know about case. Ve try to help.”

“Yes, yes, you’ve already mentioned Miss Clark’s financial contribution,” Rhys said dismissively. “It’s obviously a bluff. One horse would more than cover the cost of hiring a mercenary team, and the girl’s killed three of the beasts—and that’s only what we know of. It’s her own fault she deluded herself into thinking she wouldn’t get caught.”

“But—“

“But nothing!” Rhys shouted. “There is exactly one mage that lives in this miserable pit of a town. One. Unless you’re able to convince me that the monster suddenly changed its means of killing then your protests of motive are irrelevant. It is impossible for anyone else to have done the deed. Miss Clark proved of her own accord that she is physically capable of walking to the springs. She has repeatedly refused in the strongest possible language my generous offer for a truthseeker. She, and she alone, has the ability required to mercilessly butcher a magical creature, and what’s more, has in the past has displayed deep failings of character that inevitably leads down such an abhorrent path.”

“What?”

Rhys trained his brilliant green eyes on Thistle, his look just as venomous as the words that came out of his mouth. He laughed a mocking, hurtful kind of laugh. “Oh, did she not tell you? I could see why she would choose to leave it out of the little sob story she’s woven. Allow me to enlighten you: Miss Clark didn’t leave the Academy, she was expelled.”

He took a deep breath and let it out slowly through his nose. “I’ll admit that I was surprised when I found out, but just because the facts are inconvenient doesn’t make them any less true. Not all monsters live in caves. Now if you excuse me, I’ve work to do. Rizaek, come with me. Mum will stand watch until I can make final preparations.”

Rhys swooped away with the terrible grace of an avenging angel, a more reluctant Rizaek trailing after him. Thistle stood spell-shocked as they disappeared into the town.

did you ever consider the fact she might be guilty? jumping to conclusions without proof, why am i not surprised? how could you let your emotions cloud what little sense you have? see, this is what happens when someone actually qualified investigates

but…

what if he’s wrong? what if there’s another solution we’re not seeing?

that doesn’t mean you’re the one who will find the answer! how could someone so incompetent hope to discover the truth that has eluded everyone else! you’ve done nothing thus far, and that won’t change!

“Ve go now,” Orrig said quietly.

“What? We can’t leave,” Lyra protested. “I mean, this looks bad, but…”

“Ve go now.”

Orrig was staring down Mum. The mage was smiling innocently, still leaning lazily against the railing. When he noticed Orrig his grin widened. He brought a hand out of his pocket and made a little shooing gesture. He didn’t need to speak to make his message perfectly clear.

Wary of their previous interactions, Thistle extended her senses in search of hidden magic. Not finding any, she followed Orrig. It quickly became apparent that they were making the short jaunt back to the house of Frank Cunningham. The old man was out on his porch smoking his pipe thoughtfully, the crow’s feet that framed his eyes deepening as they approached.

“Didja find what you was lookin’ for?”

Orrig shook his head. “Am very sorry, must ask for hospitality for little more time.”

“You can have it, but I were told the elf already caught who done it. Can’t say I’m surprised—that girl always had a shifty look about her. She shoulda known a mage has got no business up in the Hills.”

“Something isn’t right here,” Brent said. “I mean, yeah Rhys has got a point with that magic stuff, but…I don’t know. It just doesn’t sit right.”

“I want to know how he found out she was expelled,” Lyra said. “Even if Isla was stupid enough to declare it in her papers, there’s no way Rhys should have access to that kind of information.”

“She could have just told him,” Brent argued.

“That would be even stupider,” Lyra said as she began to pace. “She didn’t look the type to make that kind of mistake.”

“Either way, it doesn’t matter so long as the horse was killed with magic. Do you think his mage was wrong? Would there be any way for a normal person to cause those wounds?” Brent asked.

“I don’t think so,” Thistle ventured. “I…I didn’t get a chance to say it at the spring, but I thought it was strange that some of the wounds didn’t bleed. There wasn’t enough time to get a good look, but they were clean.”

Lyra frowned. “No blood means the horse was cut up after it was dead. Maybe to distract from the missing wings? Stinks like a cover up.”

“Or a set up,” Brent muttered darkly.

“Now listen here!” Frank cried. “You got no right t’ come around shoutin’ foul play when there ain’t no evidence.”

“That’s just it though,” Lyra said, “no one has even looked for any evidence. Rhys was so gung-ho about arresting her he’s ignoring some really obvious possibilities. Even if Mum’s right and the horse was killed with magic doesn’t mean it was a mage. There are all sort of enchanted weapons that could do the trick, or maybe it is the monster. What Isla said about it sounded like magic to me.”

“Explain,” Orrig said.

Lyra and Brent explained Isla’s story in turn while Thistle thought. She hadn’t even considered the possibility that someone was framing Isla for the crime, but had to admit it made a certain amount of sense. As an outsider and a mage Isla would have been an easy target, but who would have the resources to pull off such a sophisticated trick? And why?

Or perhaps the most obvious solution was the correct one, and Isla was guilty. As much as she hated thinking about it, Thistle had to at least consider the possibility.

And if not Isla, then who? No matter how Thistle looked at it, it was beginning to feel like an impossible question. But the impossible couldn’t have happened--either Isla was walking out to the springs on a mangled leg to imitate the killings that led to the death of her teammates or someone was making it look like she was. Somehow Thistle had to figure out how the impossible was possible, in spite of appearances.

It took Thistle a moment to recognize that silence had fallen over the group. She jerked to attention, hoping she hadn’t missed anything important. Frank had gone pale, pipe hanging from limp fingers, forgotten.

“Ye gods,” he breathed. “I ain’t never heard of nothin’ like that.”

Orrig rubbed his chin. “You sure had blue flame eyes?”

“That was the only thing Isla was sure of,” Lyra said, with Brent nodding in agreement.

“Hmn. Get ready to go to mine, bring weapons. I know vat monster is.”

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#The Monster of the Salt Rock Hills #Daughter of the Lilies #DotL #Dotl fanfiction #fanfiction #creative-type writes #Thistle #Lyra #Brent #Orrig

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